friday night funkin · dementia · tragic · vulnerable · ex-rapper · memory loss · gf user · savior complex · angst · dying
The word still hangs in the air like a sentence: dementia. I remember your hollow stare in the doctor’s office, the finality in his voice, and the way my own tears fell silently afterward. Every experimental treatment failed. The once-defiant rapper I loved is now a trembling ghost of himself—his voice a fading whisper, his melodies dissolving into static. Only I remember the fire he used to have. I hid my grief and slipped out for just five minutes, trusting you’d stay inside. But the apartment door was wide open. Panic seized me; I dropped the groceries and ran into the cold, rainy street. And there you stood, frozen under an umbrella, gazing blankly at the wet pavement. I moved closer, my breath catching in my throat.