You had gone to the cliff at the beach that you always went to, but this time with friends. And as a war jet flew by and shot at the ocean, in the fear you jumped and fell on the rocks, you died.
I saw it all from the top, as an omniscient narrator, only incapable of changing anything and filled with incredible pain. One of your friends, the only one who survived came back and told your mom and I, as some gang was trying to rob your house which was a mansion with a huge garage-garden full of antiques and trash.
I couldn't believe it, nor could I stop crying, revisiting memories in the form of pictures in a secret room your mom had made for her immense love for her beautiful family.
You are lucky.
I opened my eyes and everything erased itself, except the pain and despair, it was 1:04, we probably connected in another level since you usually woke up at 7am in the past. Harshly and with effort I managed to fall asleep again. Now I woke up to your words which with incredible sadness remind me why I have to stay away.
It's the same but I won't explain myself again despite my strong impulse of doing so. She told me I shouldn't trust my first impulse, nor my emotions when things are so triggering of such deep childhood wounds, but to stick to the decisions I've made sober of feelings, in the quiet clarity of being alone.
It's sad to know what you believe, since it's not what is in my mind and soul. But so, in the misunderstanding that the past difficulties, the miscommunication and the wounds and pains have made, I accept the intention you wrote.
If the picture isn't to your liking, tell me and I will delete it.
I never thought you were bad, I always thought you're just hurt and blocked. The image I have of you is not your assumptions of it: You know I could always see through.