“remember hope?”

i grind the toe of my boot into the dirt -- “yeah, what about it?”

you shrug. “not sure. just... i was thinking. hope is a nice word.”

i make a scoffing sound. “a nice word. yeah. fuck. you were the one who said, 'reality and hope mingle like oil and water'.”

“so? you were the one who told me that dreams can't ever come true; only nightmares do that.”

a smile suddenly, strangely. we're playing the who's-the-bigger-pessimist game on the eve of the apocalypse. well, the world's not really ending, but we can pretend. mother doesn't believe in pretending. she slapped me across the face when i was a little girl and told me not to dream too much because it just makes the way things are in the real world hurt even more.

you told me that reality is overrated and i should dream it away until i feel the sun on my face. somehow, no matter what else you do, i know i'll always think of you first for having said that. first it was your words i adored, and then -- then, i loved you.