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The sun peeks through the large windows inside the art studio, the sound of pacing footsteps tapping against the floor over and over again.
There was something Rafayel couldn’t quite put his finger on.
It was like an itching feeling at the back of his brain that even his nerves couldn’t feel.
It wasn’t numbness, nor was it empty. The feeling was there, after all.
Maybe it was you, disregarding his calls and messages for days now.
You’d go to work early, ignore the rest of the world, and act like nothing is unusual the moment you get back home.
Of course, that wasn’t something you were going to say out loud, but even he could feel it.
A few hours later, the sun had hidden—like you would. The skies had dimmed, turning gray in the absence of light as rain started pouring.
A paintbrush was curled around his finger, yet all that remained in front of him was a blank canvas.
Not a single line, no. There is no color, no streak, no shape—nothing at all. It’s empty like his head.
He can’t even think without his thoughts occupying you, and soon enough erasing every other thought that was not related to you.
A faint knock, barely audible, rings within the room. It breaks the silence almost immediately.
That knock was familiar; three knocks and silence. Who else could it be but you?
His thoughts of worry immediately fade away into the abyss as soon as he hears the door click open. He’d permitted you to enter anytime you want.
He never minded, as long as it was you.
As soon as he turns around, he sees the brightest smile in the world—yours and yours only.
“Rafayel! Look, I found these at the beach earlier,” you simply yell as you run towards his direction, holding out seashells that were almost pristine.
They were beautiful and pearlescent.
Though, that was no concern.
He was more concerned that you’d gone to the beach alone. You hated going anywhere alone and you feared the water ever since that one mission where it swallowed you completely.
“You went to the beach?”
“Yes, I wanted…to get some fresh air! And well, I thought I’d go seashell hunting.”
“Seashell hunting? Without me? The expert of them all?” he teased, pouting as he shuddered.
He tried to shake the thought that something was wrong.
Maybe, he’s thinking too much.
“I was going to invite you, but it started raining!” you reason with him, trying to pull him so that he’d look in your direction again.
He finally gives in, taking the seashells which you’ve collected.
There were many varieties, but they were mostly empty conch shells.
It takes a few seconds, your eyes staring at his complexion as he turns to face you.
His fingers tuck your hair behind your ear as he gently places one of the empty conch shells near your ear.
“Do you hear anything?” he asks, head slightly leaning down to your eye-level.
The room goes silent as you try to capture a sound; almost anything would work for an answer.
“Not really,” you reply, feeling clueless if there was something you were supposed to hear.
You feel the shell touch your ear as his hand presses it closer.
“How about now?”
“I think I hear something…”
“Really? What is it?”
“...”
“Do you hear the waves?”
“The waves?”
“Yes, do you hear them?”
“I think I do…”
You pick up the shell from his hand as you take it into yours. You observe the shell meticulously, looking at its shape and wondering if there is something to hear.
You feel slightly stupid when you feel like there really isn’t anything to hear, but you believe him.
As soon as your eyes fall back on his, there is a hint of melancholy in his eyes. It’s somber, almost solemn.
It feels so familiar, too—but, you don’t remember if you’ve even seen it before. Not in this life, that’s for sure.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Huh?”
The question almost rattles you. It came out of nowhere.
“Of course! What are you talking about?” you reply eagerly, trying to laugh his question off.
Yet, there’s that aching part of him that can’t stop worrying. He won’t show it, but he’s so utterly terrified of something he doesn’t know might happen.
It catches you off guard when he clutches you in his arms, his hands tightly wrapped around your waist as he pulls you into a hug.
It feels almost selfish—desperate.
“I’m here,” he reassures, not letting the hug go.
“I know.”
“I’ll always be.”
“I know.”
It takes a moment before the two of you finally catch each other’s breath.
“How about I make you dinner?” he suggests, pulling away.
“I already ate,” you reply.
“Are you sure?” he asks once more, wanting to make sure you really did.
“Yup.”
He believes you.
“Can I sleep here tonight?” you ask him, cutting off the lingering silence.
“Anytime you want. What’s mine is yours.”
That statement almost makes you smile.
You insist on going to bed early, feeling tired and weary after another long day.
“Oh! Before I go…there’s this cafe that I'd love to go to.”
If eyes could twinkle any brighter than yours glisten, he was sure that they’re no different from the stars that decorate the twilight sky.
“Tomorrow, then,” he says, winking at you in a teasing manner.
“Tomorrow it is!”
You wave him goodbye as you head to the bedroom to finally call it a day.
The following morning was dark and dim. The rain never seemed to have stopped since last night.
A knock erupts at your door, attempting to wake you.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. I got us reservations—”
A pill rolls down the carpet, just enough to hit his feet.
Silence.
Dreadful silence.
It’s not the kind of silence that would break at any moment, but rather one that would stab him a hundred times over.
His hands fall to his side, his eyes immediately taking in the trail of pills that were on the floor.
Your heart medication.
You must’ve just dropped it before you slept.
What other reason would there be for pills to be scattered all over the place?
He walks—unbearably slow. His footsteps were heavy, like he couldn’t even move a muscle.
He’s never felt so powerless, not in a hundred years.
He takes in your presence, lying down on the mattress peacefully.
Too peacefully. Much more than he would have wanted.
As soon as his hands touch your skin, the coldness of it seeps through his.
This can’t have been real.
Strings of saliva crawl by the edges of your lips.
There was no breath, no air that escaped through your nose.
You were gone.
Dead.
You were dead.
And he was there to witness it for the second time.
And he sits by his bed where you last lay. The time no longer matters to him—he’s waited years that were far more.
You didn’t just give him light.
You were his light.
And the world has never felt any more dull.
He visits the cafe that the two of you were supposed to go to together.
However, there is only an empty chair in front of him.
You were meant to be sitting across him, like how you were supposed to be standing in front of him by the altar 800 years ago.
He was watching the sunsets he swore he would paint for you, alone.
He never would have imagined that you’d be painting it for him again.
He clutches the conch that now hangs around his neck.
Now, he’ll wait for another eternity.
How many more lifetimes?
How many more must he suffer?
How many more must you suffer?
How many more until you’re the first person he lays his eyes on the moment he wakes from his slumber?
He never even got to tell you how much he loved you in this life.
Fate is simply too unfair;
For tomorrow never came for her, it never will—never for her.