I wrote this story ages ago, and lately a few of you, whether it be in reviews for this story, others, or the occasional PM, have been suggesting that I write a second chapter. I'm sorry about the ending to this "one-shot" – at the time (which, for the record, was over half a year ago at, if I recall correctly, somewhere between two and three a.m. in the morning) I had somehow convinced myself that this was a satisfying ending – poetic or ironic or symbolic or something. But a recent reviewer guided me back to this story of so long ago and directed my attention to the atrocious ending I left the few of you reading this story with.

I can't believe I checked the "complete" box on this story. At any rate, I've decided to finish it off with a second chapter. No, I won't be making it into a full-out story, because, quite frankly, I have a horrible habit of not finishing things (and, yes, that applies to so much more in my life than Fanfiction stories) and a case of writer's block that always seems to creep up at the wrong times.

Thanks for the reviews, favorites, and alerts. Without further ado, I present to you my new, improved, and hopefully more satisfying ending to this piece.

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She's a dazed mess of jumbled limbs and uneven breaths on the white-tiled floor of the hospital. Her hands are clenched together, her trembling fingers weaved through each other like she saw Clare once position them.

It was a year ago, before the murder, of course, and Imogen had been passing by a classroom in the east wing on her way to retrieve a textbook from her locker. They were all in a circle, she remembers, and it reminded her of a therapy session – each and every one patient forced to sit an equal distance apart, no back-corner seat to crouch away in. They were quiet, their heads bowed down and their hands together.

No one heard Imogen's scoff.

She wouldn't have sneered had she known that, weeks later, the curly-haired, blue-eyed girl sitting near the window would be dead. She really hopes Clare – if there even is a Clare somewhere – knows that.

She's not sure she did it right. Imogen has never understood how to pray. The media makes it seem as though you merely close your eyes and think words at a being somewhere in heaven. Like the sentences appear in your mind as if you are speaking them aloud.

But when Imogen, moments ago, collapsed against the wall and slid to the cool ground with her hands held firmly together, all that really flashed through her mind was brief, frightful glances of that night – the sirens, the swirling lights, her panicked, crying classmates. She tried to create clear thoughts.

Clare, if you're listening . . .

Eli needs your help right now . . .

Don't let this happen to him . . .

She's not sure whether she spoke the words aloud – only that, within fractions of moments, she was unable to string together concrete words anymore. The flashes were back, and she couldn't stifle them. Frightening, heart-wrenching visuals, blurry around the edges paired with a feeling so desperate. She can't label it. All she knows is that there was an ache in her chest and tears burning her eyes, and, more than anything she's ever wanted before, she longed for Eli Goldsworthy to open his emerald eyes again. And not the cloudy, glazed eyes that he looks at her with when he's seeing something else. She wanted to see him open, for the first time since the life-shattering night, eyes that are clear and new and ready to face the real world for what it is without Clare here anymore.

Eli Goldsworthy was much too bright to be lost to such a maddening fate. His soul was – is – pure and wondering and wistful. He saw the world in a way no one ever could. Imogen remembers that most about him.

She could capture moments in pictures, frozen to time. The fractions of seconds that people hold onto forever in their minds – caught by a stranger in pixels of light that recreate the memory.

But Eli, he could imagine it all in his mind, could see the world and everyone in it for, sometimes, who they were and, other times, who he wanted them to be. He could use everything that had ever touched his soul to create new pictures, new feelings, new escapes. His mind was scary, though. His thoughts, Imogen feared, would one day drag him too far away from reality.

But Eli only bordered that line until the night he lost her. Once she was gone, there wasn't much of a reason to balance himself along anymore. At least, that's what Imogen guesses was the last sensible thought to roam his mind.

She's not sure if she prayed the right way. Hopefully, if God's as good as they say he is, he'll understand what she meant.

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Martha is worried about her. Imogen thinks she has been for a long time now. Sometimes, Imogen visits the hospital once a day in a week, and, by Saturday or Sunday, the aged woman behind the desk is looking at her with sympathetic, yet strangely cautious eyes.

Imogen always ignores her. She guesses that, in the back of her mind, she's always sort of understood Martha's glances at those times – and just neglected to let that revelation soak into her conscious.

For some reason, though, today is different, and, no matter what she does, Imogen can't disregard Martha's troubled gazes burning into the side of her cheek.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" The words come about so much more hostile than she intended them to, but she's too flustered and drained to make any kind of amend.

Martha is startled, and Imogen knows why; the old lady has been giving her these looks for almost a year now, but Imogen's never addressed them. Martha isn't sure how to respond. Either that, or, Imogen realizes with a sudden jolt in her stomach, she isn't sure whether Imogen wants to hear the truth.

Instead of a hesitant explanation or a moment of dragging silence, Martha, with a nonchalant countenance holding her together, merely asks, "Imogen, how old are you?"

"Nineteen," Imogen mutters, though she doesn't see what that has to do with anything.

She nods. "Are you going to school?"

Imogen shrugs, "Not yet. I don't really know what I want to do."

And the small wince in Martha's eyes is what gives it away, the relationship between Imogen's age and life and the sympathetic glances.

"I'm fine, Martha," Imogen insists, but her voice strains and breaks. And she doesn't sound confident in her words at all.

Martha frowns. The expression looks natural, fitting itself into the lines already carved on her face. But she guesses you can't smile an awful lot when you work at a place like this.

For a brief moment, Imogen wonders if someday those lines will be on her face – and then, just as quickly, banishes the thought.

"Imogen," Martha sighs, "don't let the world lose you, too."

Her stomach clenches. She tears her mind for words but can't seem to find any – just like when she was praying moments ago. Her throat is dry anyway.

Martha continues, and Imogen tries not to listen. But the words seep through her like water filling cracks in pavement. "I remember him. He used to come for therapy sessions once a month. He was bright and intelligent – such a unique human being. And then he lost that girl and" –

"Clare," Imogen hisses. The words are raspy, scraping her throat on the way up. "Her name was Clare . . . And she was wonderful."

Martha's eyes soften and glisten. "I'm sure she was," is all Martha says.

She turns away to take a call, and Imogen slouches back into the corner, her limbs flimsy and limp. She can't stop herself from inventing the next words off Martha's lips.

I'm sure she was, but she's gone – and you can't bring her back. She wouldn't want you two to sacrifices your lives over her.

And it's true. If, in some form, Clare still exists, she surely doesn't want Eli to grow old in this prison, to have his creativity slowly sucked away by the white walls on all sides of him.

But that's the thing about people you love. They see you better than anyone, yet the one thing they'll never understand is how truly impossible it is to drag on through life without them. They want you to live on and thrive when they're gone, but they never tell you how.

No one ever tells you how to do that. Most people, if not all – Imogen's quite certain – never learn how to do that. They just learn how to pretend. There are a whole lot of people on the earth who are dead inside, Imogen thinks.

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He hears her voice. It's unmistakable; it will be that way for eternity. Even as he stares at the bleeding girl sprawled over the gurney, clutches at her pale hand, watches the once radiant cerulean shade of her eyes dull to a stormy sky as her blinking slows – he hears her voice.

Soft and clear. As if she is still giving him advice on a writing piece. As if she is still singing along to those dreadfully slow acoustic, boy-band songs on Morty's radio. As if she is still curled up beside him, whispering she loves him into his ear.

This isn't real, Eli, she says, It's time that you let me go. She's waiting for you to wake up.

And the words swell into hopeful clouds in his heart. He's dreaming horrible dreams. In minutes, he will wake up in his own room, sweating and crying – and, perhaps, Clare will be there with him, molded to his side, her arm tossed over his chest. And she'll whisper soothing words to him and comb his hair back behind his ear. She'll kiss him until he forgets all about this agonizing delirium.

With a strange jolt through his body and white, blinding light streaming through the world, he gasps awake, coughing and sputtering and screaming. He thrashes under white covers and breathes quick but heavy.

She's not there, though. He's locked into a small, white room, and there's a dark-haired, slender girl in the corner crying silently. It's Imogen. She's a bit taller, and her hair is straight rather than pulled back into a braid. Her glasses have disappeared, revealing dark bags hanging under her eyes.

But she's still Imogen Moreno, his theater partner and good friend – and he's just happy to see someone that isn't lit dark with the terrifying dream world.

"Imogen," he croaks. His voice is cracked and dry as if he hasn't spoken in ages.

Tears run down her face, and she begins to sob now. "Yes, yes," she gasps between uneven breaths, "It's me."

"Where's Clare?" He whispers, untrusting of his voice.

Imogen's happy tears falter. Her lips quiver for a moment before letting out an unsteady breath. "Eli . . ." she murmurs and then snivels.

His blood runs cold. Ice is flowing through his veins.

No . . .

"It was real." It was supposed to be a question, but the words string together as a statement. His eyes are closed tight; he doesn't want to see Imogen's expression. But the dragging moment of silence that follows the words are enough confirmation.

"Only the first time," Imogen breaths.

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Life goes on for them both.

At first, it is a painful, seemingly meaningless existence for Eli. Imogen tries to be patient, but, with three college classes a day and a part-time job, she is lucky if he is not huddled in a corner shaking by the time she arrives home to the small apartment they share.

The hospital, which he still must visit frequently, is far away from his parents' home in Toronto, and, besides, the only one he can talk to is Imogen.

They don't share a bed or even a bedroom, excepting the occasional nights when Eli wakes in a pool of salty sweat and tears, thrashing and crying, and Imogen wraps her arms around him, just standing, sitting – lying – there with him until his sobs turn to coughs and his tear ducts run dry.

It isn't all bad, though. Not even those first couple months are all bad. Sometimes, when neither is in the mood to think, they talk about easy subjects like Imogen's strange Humanities professor, with a scruffy mustache, who spits when he talks. One day, Imogen even comes home to find Eli crouched behind the door with a can of whipped cream clutched in his hand. They laugh and spray each other with the dessert, along with eating an awful lot of it. And they fall asleep smiling that night.

The evening, years later, when Eli kisses Imogen is slow and hazardous. But Eli knows he's ready, and, after awhile, Imogen believes him. He does love her.

They talk about Clare sometimes – never for too long, though. Eli is an atheist, and Imogen is an agnostic. And they just live life, unsure of what happens in the end.

But, when Eli is out of the apartment, Imogen still prays. And she doesn't worry that she's doing it wrong anymore.

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Hopefully, that is a more satisfying ending. This is complete.

A review would be great.