Those peaceful, fun days, they were all fake. Now you know, now you've realized it, and you don't know what has triggered this, but now that you know, you can't imagine anymore.

You walk upstairs, into your room, and eye the shelf. Memories, memories that aren't fake return to you, and you realize that, when you were supposedly watching a movie with "John", you weren't. The shelf where movies lay, is dusty, and the one you thought John had taken is among them, covered in a thick film of dust. Now you realize, you were alone in that moment, now you realize, you were only staring at a blank TV. There was no movie. There was no John.

John was never there.

John never loved you.

It's then, that the memories hit you, one after the other. John is dead. Everyone is dead. You've been playing a fake, meaningless game, and you hadn't even realized it. You don't understand it, you don't understand why. Then you get it, and it takes you only a second more. Sburb. You'd been taken here, and in a haze, you had found his house, and that was when this fake life had started. All along, you'd been alone. All along, it had been fake. Fun days you thought you were spending with John were empty, because you had simply been talking to yourself.

Now that you know, you can't take it back.

And it hurts, far more than you thought it would. It burns. It makes the silent tears sliding down your face sting all the worse, and you don't mind them, not really, because no one is here to see you sob. But that also means that no one is here to hold you, no one is here to whisper comforts into your ear, no one is here to tell you things will be okay, and you can't tell yourself that, because things won't be okay. All along, you've been alone. John doesn't love you. John never loved you. John barely even knew you.

John didn't love you, and he doesn't have a chance to, now. He is dead. And all of your friends are, too. Everyone you ever cared about is gone. Everyone... is dead.

And now, as you lay down on the cold, dusty bed that was John's, you are too.

There's one comfort for you, as you are now. And that is the smell that you know belongs to John. You never washed these sheets. You never washed away John's scent. You couldn't have, for all you know is John, John, John.

Dimly, you think you feel someone hugging you from behind. That sweet smell returns, and you let yourself fade completely. How long you had been dying, you don't know. But now, you are gone as well, and perhaps you can finally meet with John. This, you can take comfort in. You do have one regret, though.

You wish you'd told him.