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Not in this life, not in this world, and yet somehow he feels he knows this boy, the street kid with the huge grin and the sunny personality.
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Not in this life, not in this world, and yet somehow he feels he knows this boy, the child soldier with vitiligo and the soul of a poet.
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He shares his notebook, full of words that lay emotions bare with the precision of a surgeon with a scalpel.
“Death” says his hands, but “Life” says his soul. Even when he can’t see it in himself, even when he feels he’s a walking corpse. His words have saved the souls of others, though he’ll never know. The only lives and souls that mattered to him ripped away in a flood of flame and a hail of bullets.
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He shares his stories, full of honest emotions that hit the listener like a well-aimed fist.
“Life” says his smile, but “Death” says his eyes. Everyone around him draws energy from his seemingly endless well, never realizing the cost. His hands have saved the lives of others, though he shirks the title of hero. The lives and souls who meant the most to him ripped away with careless bullets and a surge of flame.
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Some time, somewhere, he always hoped he could find someone to care about again. Maybe here, maybe now? He gazes at the sunshine smile with the shadows behind it. Shadows of pain, shadows of loss.
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Someway, somehow, the golden-eyed boy is prying open that closed-off section of his soul. Maybe he can give his whole, though shattered, heart again. Gentle hands with healing in them. Soothing scars, mending cracks.
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“My Starlight, whom I love with my whole heart.”
“My Sunshine, whom I love with my whole soul.”