A/N: I'll warn you, this is heavy. It deals with Mike's process of mourning Chester, so if you think that might be a trigger for you, proceed with caution. That said, it was very cathartic for me and something I feel like I needed to write. I suppose it can be taken as Bennoda-ish, but that's not really the point of the story. Much love, everyone <3

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal.

Love leaves a memory no one can steal.

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You step into your studio, squinting to avoid the light of the too-bright sun peeking over the horizon. Grabbing two books off the nearby shelf, you slump into your desk chair and cover your face with your hands until you can stand to look at them.

A photo album, the corners of the pages worn and bent from overuse. A spiral notebook with a white cover adorned in sparkly green butterflies, and lined, mint colored pages within. A bit frivolous for your taste, but Chester liked it, so of course you bought it. It houses all the scattered lyrics that you and he wrote over the past year. All the ideas for songs that died before they were born. They died when he did, and you ... well, you're barely alive, yourself.

You flip through the pages, coming to rest on the very last song the two of you ever wrote together. The title sits proudly at the top of the page, written in Chester's slanted, messy scrawl:

Wish.

You always rolled your eyes when he wrote in half-print, half-cursive, saying it was too hard to read. Now you want to tell him that he can write however he wants, if he'll just come back. But it's too late. Your attention drifts to the photo album, and you open it too, sifting through twenty years' worth of Chester Bennington.

"Hey, Ches..." you murmur to one of your favorite pictures - him sitting cross-legged on the couch in this very room, smirking and holding a giant piece of pizza to his mouth. You'd told him not to eat in here. He'd scoffed and done it anyways, and you'd been too busy laughing and taking pictures to be mad at him.

You hate that you've been reduced to talking to photographs. That this is the only way you can talk to him now. Yet you still do it every day. The words are always hushed, as if you're afraid that he'll hear you, and at the same time devastated that he won't. But you still speak them. That's what matters, isn't it?

Your eyes flicker back to the spiral notebook with the green butterflies. "I've been thinking about Wish again..." you say, feeling the first tear trickle down your cheek.

This isn't the Mike Shinoda the world knows. That Mike wouldn't be crying into a photo album, looking to sparkly butterflies for comfort. That Mike wouldn't refuse to leave his bed for days on end, because he just can't muster up the energy to care anymore. That Mike wouldn't post happy tweets while in reality he's screaming and sobbing, because Anna and the kids are out and it's the only time he can be emotional.

That Mike definitely wouldn't have drank and smoked his way through the Hollywood Bowl show, using the set breaks to vomit in a bucket backstage. But lately you've started thinking, that maybe the Mike Shinoda the world knows isn't really Mike Shinoda at all.

"How am I supposed to finish it without you?" you ask his bright eyes and curved lips, "How am I supposed to do anything without you?"

The silence you get in response is unbearable. You pick up the notebook, one of the sparkly green butterflies catching in the light of the sun that continues its wretched ascent behind you.

"Look..." You hold the book up to his face, your hands trembling with the effort. "You left it unfinished. How could you? How could you? Just ... look, damn it..."

You stare and stare, but the picture doesn't move. It never will, and neither will the man inside it. The notebook slips through your fingers and clatters against the desk. Then your shoulders are shaking, and your eyes are wet, and nothing makes sense anymore.

Minutes, or hours, or days later, when you glance up and see Anna leaning against the doorframe, you're too numb to feel startled. You just sigh and drop your gaze back to your hands in order to avoid the sadness that's pooling in her eyes too.

"You're up early..." She murmurs.

You shrug and glance at the clock. It reads 5:34am. Is that early? It doesn't matter. Time is meaningless now.

Anna pushes off the wall and comes to stand behind you, one hand absently stroking over your shoulder. "You could still finish it, you know." She glances towards the notebook, and the green butterflies seem to recoil at her words.

You shake your head. "It won't be the same."

"No, but it'll be something."

You're not sure how to respond to that. Your eyes drift back to Chester and the pizza that left a grease stain on your couch that you still haven't been able to get out. "I loved him..."

She nods. "I know."

"No, I mean, I loved him." You add some force to your words, hoping she'll get your meaning. It's not an admission you want to make, but ... you need her to understand why you can't just move on.

Another nod, albeit slightly more hesitant. "I know..."

The implication of those two words doesn't hit you. Not at first. But once it does, you're rushing to defend yourself, even though there's hardly anything there to defend.

"But I didn't... You know I never..." You can't bring yourself to say the word. Cheated.

"Mike," she breathes, rubbing circles into your back, "it's okay."

It isn't, though. Nothing is okay. "How did you know?"

A smile that looks more like a grimace. "I think everyone knew."

"Everyone except him..." you say, and the conversation drops.

Anna stays with you, and the movement of her hand on your back is almost comforting. You stare at the green butterflies together until she leans down to kiss your cheek, and tells you it's time for her to wake the kids up for school.

You contemplate telling her that it doesn't matter, that time is meaningless now. But by the time you glance up, she's already gone.