It was hopeless.
Yes, he looked like him, in a way - same body structure, same posture. And they talked alike û the same diction and syntax, even though his voice was a bit higher than his.
And how he smiled. That slight hum in the back of his throat, how he tilted his head û that was definitely the same.
But they smiled because of different things. He would smile because of her. The man in front of her now would never really give her the time of day.
Oh, heÆd make an attempt, try to act like how he used to be û but that wasnÆt fair, was it?
She had lost the one who had owned her heart. The one in front of her tried û oh, how he tried û butàthat was part of the problem.
They werenÆt the same. Because it had been so effortless for him.
------------------------
She loved him.
HeàdidnÆt feel the same way.
But that was fine. He still cared for her, even though he was in love with what she used to be.
àIt made her jealous, sometimes.
It was a foolish jealousy, she knew that û he was still in love with her, just notàthe her that existed now.
She could sense it û there was alwaysàsomething, in the air. Always the slightest hint of tension.
But he never showed it. He never used the wrong name, never assumed that the old her and the new her had the same likes and dislikes.
No, he never showed it. He was the perfect gentleman, always there to offer a hand. He tried to love her, and that was enough.
And then, he died.
------------------------
The air was filled with tension. It was an awkward, exhausting miasma that occurred whenever they were in the same room.
She hated it. He hated it, too.
Butàthey could get used to it, right?
If they talked together, walked together, that fog would disappear, rig-
And suddenly, he was done with his breakfast. Got up, æcalmlyÆ placed his plate into the sink, and went out.
The air stopped smothering her û but that didnÆt let her breath a sigh of relief.
It was impossible for them to be able to get used to the tension. Every day, either he would walk out the door, or she would.
Butàshe didnÆt want to lose him.
------------------------
He was dead. He was dead, he was dead, he was dead. And. Gone.
Why? Why, why, why? Heàhe shouldnÆt be dead yet, he canÆt be dead yet!
Ifàif he was gone, then she had nothing. He was the only thing that was hers. Everything else û faded memories, old hopes, discarded dreams û those belonged to the æherÆ before theà
àThe ritual. The ritual that created her. The ritual he used to try to bring æherÆ back to life.
Butàhe had failed. A wonderful, happy failure û but he still didnÆt get what he wanted.
àAnd she would break if she failed.
------------------------
He was never caring enough. He was not loving, affectionate. He wasnÆt him, and she hated it.
So, she left.
She had to leave, had to get out, because it hurt too much, because it was all just a farce, because just being near him now was liable to make her collapse onto her knees and cry and puke.
He was gone. That was the truth.
Butà she knew that, from the very beginning. She had brought him back to life, but she couldnÆt bring back the parts she loved.
------------------------
He looked different.
But that was fine, as long as he was here. With her.
So, even though it took her forever to carry him to the bed, even though his eyes looked dazed and confused, it was alright. There was no wind to disturb the scene û the rhythmic ticking of the clock only served to create an air of calm in the room.
The moonlight wasnÆt shining on him, but she could still see him, even through the shadow.
She pushed the wooden spoon carefully against his mouth, let his lips gently touch the warm soup. With that prompt, he opened his mouth, and swallowed.
It carried on like this, for a while. He opened his mouth; she filled it with soothing liquid. The ticking of the clock, the sound of the spoon hitting the bowl, the light splashing of soup û repetitive, peaceful.
àThe scene felt familiar. Too familiar.
The clack of the spoon and the empty bowl snapped her from her worries. She set them aside, on the nightstand. Then û
ôAre you feeling better, ____?ö
The worry returned in full force. She couldnÆt hear herself say the name, because he wasnÆt acting correctly. Her last syllables, her worry, hadnÆt made him smile, shrug, or anything that he was supposed to do.
He was biting his lip, head down, brow scrunched up with confusion, and û
She knew where the dÚjÓ vu came from. He had been the one feeding her; she had been the one on the bed. Same room, same time, same ticking clock, same...
àSame words? Noàno, no, please, no, anything but û
ôThatÆs not my name.ö
Yes, he looked like him, in a way - same body structure, same posture. And they talked alike û the same diction and syntax, even though his voice was a bit higher than his.
And how he smiled. That slight hum in the back of his throat, how he tilted his head û that was definitely the same.
But they smiled because of different things. He would smile because of her. The man in front of her now would never really give her the time of day.
Oh, heÆd make an attempt, try to act like how he used to be û but that wasnÆt fair, was it?
She had lost the one who had owned her heart. The one in front of her tried û oh, how he tried û butàthat was part of the problem.
They werenÆt the same. Because it had been so effortless for him.
------------------------
She loved him.
HeàdidnÆt feel the same way.
But that was fine. He still cared for her, even though he was in love with what she used to be.
àIt made her jealous, sometimes.
It was a foolish jealousy, she knew that û he was still in love with her, just notàthe her that existed now.
She could sense it û there was alwaysàsomething, in the air. Always the slightest hint of tension.
But he never showed it. He never used the wrong name, never assumed that the old her and the new her had the same likes and dislikes.
No, he never showed it. He was the perfect gentleman, always there to offer a hand. He tried to love her, and that was enough.
And then, he died.
------------------------
The air was filled with tension. It was an awkward, exhausting miasma that occurred whenever they were in the same room.
She hated it. He hated it, too.
Butàthey could get used to it, right?
If they talked together, walked together, that fog would disappear, rig-
And suddenly, he was done with his breakfast. Got up, æcalmlyÆ placed his plate into the sink, and went out.
The air stopped smothering her û but that didnÆt let her breath a sigh of relief.
It was impossible for them to be able to get used to the tension. Every day, either he would walk out the door, or she would.
Butàshe didnÆt want to lose him.
------------------------
He was dead. He was dead, he was dead, he was dead. And. Gone.
Why? Why, why, why? Heàhe shouldnÆt be dead yet, he canÆt be dead yet!
Ifàif he was gone, then she had nothing. He was the only thing that was hers. Everything else û faded memories, old hopes, discarded dreams û those belonged to the æherÆ before theà
àThe ritual. The ritual that created her. The ritual he used to try to bring æherÆ back to life.
Butàhe had failed. A wonderful, happy failure û but he still didnÆt get what he wanted.
àAnd she would break if she failed.
------------------------
He was never caring enough. He was not loving, affectionate. He wasnÆt him, and she hated it.
So, she left.
She had to leave, had to get out, because it hurt too much, because it was all just a farce, because just being near him now was liable to make her collapse onto her knees and cry and puke.
He was gone. That was the truth.
Butà she knew that, from the very beginning. She had brought him back to life, but she couldnÆt bring back the parts she loved.
------------------------
He looked different.
But that was fine, as long as he was here. With her.
So, even though it took her forever to carry him to the bed, even though his eyes looked dazed and confused, it was alright. There was no wind to disturb the scene û the rhythmic ticking of the clock only served to create an air of calm in the room.
The moonlight wasnÆt shining on him, but she could still see him, even through the shadow.
She pushed the wooden spoon carefully against his mouth, let his lips gently touch the warm soup. With that prompt, he opened his mouth, and swallowed.
It carried on like this, for a while. He opened his mouth; she filled it with soothing liquid. The ticking of the clock, the sound of the spoon hitting the bowl, the light splashing of soup û repetitive, peaceful.
àThe scene felt familiar. Too familiar.
The clack of the spoon and the empty bowl snapped her from her worries. She set them aside, on the nightstand. Then û
ôAre you feeling better, ____?ö
The worry returned in full force. She couldnÆt hear herself say the name, because he wasnÆt acting correctly. Her last syllables, her worry, hadnÆt made him smile, shrug, or anything that he was supposed to do.
He was biting his lip, head down, brow scrunched up with confusion, and û
She knew where the dÚjÓ vu came from. He had been the one feeding her; she had been the one on the bed. Same room, same time, same ticking clock, same...
àSame words? Noàno, no, please, no, anything but û
ôThatÆs not my name.ö