Daryl Dixon

You could never really stop thinking about it.

Once, when you were both at work and bored out of your minds, Glenn told you his favorite color was green; a darker green, like if you took a picture of a forest up above and all the leaves blended together and formed one large mass. That’s the color.

So, whenever you were out in nature, you always thought of him - every single time, without fail. From the moment he told you about it, you saw him everywhere; the overgrown grass in the cracks of the sidewalk, the color of your brother’s eyes, the skin of a walker’s arm. Even the trees around the clearing where he died.

But Glenn isn’t green anymore.

He’s red.

Red like his murderer’s scarf. Red like Maggie’s cheeks as she watched her husband’s eye pop out of his skull. Red like your lips when the big bad wolf stood over you and pointed his bat at the crown of your head, and you bit down so hard your teeth met your own blood, just so Lucille wouldn’t do it for you.

Red like the juice that trailed from Glenn’s mush of a head, collecting dirt as it took a turn and warmed your knee. You happened to be on his right, Rosita on his left. His blood chose you, for whatever reason.

A few months after it happened, you thought about it every second. All of your movements were slowed, muddled - in your head, you weren’t at Alexandria. You were there, in that line next to your best friend.

It's been a while since it happened - about a year and a few months. You still feel just about the same, though. Sometimes, you’ll wake up from a nightmare that leaves you sweaty and roaming the streets around your house just to distract your body; there was still that ghost of an ache in your knees from kneeling.

The time has done everything but heal you. It’s made you bitter, isolated, angry. Angry at what, it was hard to tell most days. Of course, you could blame it on Negan, make it easy for yourself.

But you blame Rick, just like Daryl, Maggie, and Jesus do.

It's late at night, but early enough to have a campfire by the church. The kids are either running around or sleeping by their parents, who nurse beers or wine or water. You’re sitting alone on a tipped log, a water bottle in your hands. You vaguely watch the people of Alexandria mill about and laugh with each other, and you feel that jealousy in your heart stronger than anything you’ve seem to have ever felt before.

And then you hear footsteps trail up behind you, and your heart momentarily stops.

You look over your shoulder at whoever it may be, and it's Daryl. You furrow your eyebrows a little, confused - he had involuntarily taken up the mantle of the Savior’s leader, and he hasn’t been at Alexandria in a while. Seeing him here, inside these walls, it's... it's a bit of a sore reminder.

You stay silent as he sits next to you on the log, letting the quiet around you two permeate before he speaks up.

“Hey,” he says, his voice rough and low like always.