Not Really There

I know you're not really there.

I know you're a ghost, or spirit, or my imagination tormenting me once again.

Still, I want to see that smiling face, hear those words from the past, your voice that could calm a whole squad and spoke like a true leader. I would rather see the misty glow around you when I think you're watching us from the shadows.

Marco …

I'd rather see your ghost than see that drying corpse on the ground, eyes that once gleamed with dreams, now hollow and turning gray; lips that had laughed with us in the mess hall and told idiotic jokes, now pulling back with decay; skin that I had touched, easing you out of a nightmare one cold winter evening in our first year of training—and you never did tell me what it was about—now pale and bloating with God knows what insects and bacteria found you before we could.

Because no one saw. No one knew. No one was there to see how one of the brightest beacons of our class could fall, not due to the bite of a Titan, but … just fall. To die with no glory. If I hadn't been there, we never would have known that it was even you.

I don't want to remember that.

Ever!

Yet it haunts me. Now I'm the one with nightmares, and Connie is the one who shakes me awake. I don't tell him about the dreams, like you never told me. I hold it in, because I'm not supposed to let the death of one friend tear me up inside like this. I'm supposed to be stronger. I'm supposed to be a soldier.

Is that how you felt, Marco? Is that why you always bottled your fears and doubts?

I know you're not really there …

But I want to see you happy again, healthy, smiling at me and Eren and Mikasa and the rest.

You're part of this team, too, Marco. I'm not the only one who has seen a glimpse of you when the sun hits just right. Eren said he saw you wearing our uniform. You're with us … in spirit.

That's all I need to carry on, to know that this idiotic, suicidal decision I made was the right one.

With you guiding and guarding me, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I'll survive this whole damn thing.

A part of me wants to reach out, hold you, thank you, punch you for getting me into this mess, and cry. Cry and tell you not to go. Cry as I feel your face to make sure it's healthy, not that skeletal nightmare. Cry … just cry.

I miss you so much, Marco. Words can't express it.

I want to see that smile again.

Although I know … you're not really there.