Nothing.

There’s just. Nothing.

Well, there’s everyone. All of the Ipliers are there. He can see them all, so clear, but so fuzzy. Memories of their looks, mixed with how his narration describes them. They seem to glow, almost. 

That wasn’t what was important, though. Because everyone was there, but there was nothing. There was no change. 

As doctor Edward Iplier tended to his patients in his clinic.
As the Jim twins reported on the newest big scoop they had found.
As Bim Trimmer did his gameshow “Hire My Ass”.
As Wilford Warfstache interviewed whoever was interesting.
As Yandereplier stalked their senpai.
As Ed Edgar tried to sell his babies and children.
As Silver Sheperd saved the day.
As King of the squirrels was among his subjects.

Nothing was different, without the Host. Without the Host existing.

The library was still there. The recording room was there, speaking of the man who had once been there, every day, every night, broadcasting an ominous show. There was even the Host’s room, leading from the library.

But the Host didn’t exist, here. Not anymore. 

He didn’t know why, or how. He knew the Host had existed, at one point. He could see it in their faces, as they passed the library. He could tell from the empty seat at the conference table from time to time. He could tell from how whenever anything closely related to the Host was mentioned, their expressions would shift for a moment.

He didn’t exist anymore. He must have ceased to. No wonder, with his creators having abandoned him. Markiplier himself had said the Host wasn’t his character. But the cyndagos had most likely disregarded him as soon as the April fool’s prank was done with.

Of course he’d cease to exist.

But seeing how nothing had changed. Seeing how no one seemed truly affected by his missing. It hurt. It hurt. 

It hurt.

He couldn’t express how much it hurt. Not falling to his knees, not clutching his chest. No screaming and wailing, no body-wrecking sobs. To thick red drops of red dripping from his cheeks, bandages soaked beyond recognition. Nearly sliding off his face. Not begging, not pleading to please be remembered, please have been cared about.

Nothing could express how deeply it hurt his soul.

He had existed, he had mattered, hadn’t he? But, here, he hadn’t. He hadn’t mattered, he hadn’t been cared about, he wasn’t remembered other than as another ego too weak to survive.

It hurt his very being, what made him up. Though, what did, even? Nothing but ideas. Ideas which would fleet long before anyone else, ideas which would be drowned by other thoughts, ideas that would be disregarded.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. It hurt so badly. Even choking on sobs, choking on begs, choking on pleas. Even shaking, curling up tightly on the ground. Even quieting down, blood from his eyes pooling beneath him.

Even admitting defeat, abandoned like an unfinished story.

Even that couldn’t express how much he hurt.