You

“It’s you.”

Your shoulders tense, and in your utter confusion, you stumble with your next step forwards, falling to the ground. You roll over, but you can’t lift yourself up, your legs are suddenly heavy, numb. You turn to look up at him, but all you can see is the wound he’s left gaping open, the one he thinks he hides, the one everyone can see.

“What do you mean ‘it’s me?’”

The forest surrounds the two of you; there is stillness now as the trees fade from their breath-giving vibrancies, distorting into dark shapes, reaching up, up to the clouds, begging for a release. How? How could any of this sickness be your doing? You’ve fought just as hard to be here - living, breathing, trying to make things right. How could he, of all people, think you were the cause of this plague?

Your throat itches, your mouth dries with each shallow gasp. Your vision, now blurring at your peripherals, finally focuses on your canteen in his hands. Any questions you could have asked are now irrelevant, as the ice quickly, silently, starts to freeze your veins.

This is it.

You blink and he is beside you. Trying to hold you, still choosing to love you as he turns you into his memory. All you ever wanted was his arms around you, but not like this. You fail to push him away, he’s stronger than you now.

And after a moment more, it’s just him.