A single tear dripped onto the newspaper. It was held in shaking hands, attached to a silently convulsing body. He vaguely saw the title of the page through his tear-ridden eyes. Weddings. It mocked him; shooting pains through his chest and making his body go through more of those awful hard trembles. Then there was his angel, his boy, his sweetheart, his everything, his all, his other half, the love of his life, forever and always. Wrapped in the arms of someone else. Sure, he wasn't all that terrible looking either, but there was simply no comparison with the God next to him. Then again, Kurt would always be Blaine's God. He cried and cried and let it all out, and it fell and fell and fell onto the page, soaking it in tears. Why did he let him go? Why did he not stand up, sweep him off his feet, fight back, anything? Why? Oh, why? He stood slowly, sombrely, and made his way to the desk in the corner of the room. He took the scissors and carefully, carefully, cut Kurt's stunning picture from the paper. He was careful to miss his new husband, smiling so brightly because he had just been handed Blaine's whole world on a silver platter. Blaine trudged upstairs, always holding the miniature Kurt so so gently yet so so tightly in his hands. He looked in his bathroom mirror, not shocked to find the tear tracks, red puffy eyes, utterly, tragically devastated expression and soul broken beyond repair. He decided against doing anything that required movement and resigned himself to the bed, laying his picture of Kurt on the pillow beside him.
'You are so beautiful,' he whispered to it, like the slightest sound might rip the picture in two, 'we were so beautiful.'
And more tears fell. And Blaine died inside.
No. No. It couldn't be. The newspaper was shuddering with the force of an earthquake. But he could still make out the title. Funerals. It couldn't be true, it couldn't. That was what he repeated to himself. But that didn't make it better, didn't make the pain go away, didn't mend his now eternally broken heart, which was already half gone when he had left him. There was the face of his prince, his lover, his amazing, his puppy, his Adonis, his heart and soul forevermore, his loss. His loss. His body shook and the tears began. The denial had ended, and the tears began. His gorgeous, smiling face stared back at him as he cried, a last reminder of who he was, and what he had lost. Kurt had taken that picture. They had been at the park, a safe place, a happy place for both of them, and Kurt can remember Blaine's adorable, laughing, cheerful face. He can remember the breeze in the trees. The butterflies that Blaine insisted on chasing. The soft smell of orange blossom as it blew in from the trees. He would give anything to have those days back. He would give his life. He would give his life to have Blaine's back. He was all alone in the small house, his husband leaving him two days ago when Kurt had heard of Blaine's suicide and gone into a deep depression. They had fought, Kurt shouting that he still loved Blaine, he always would, even now that he was gone. When he had left, Kurt had pulled out the secret picture frame from his wardrobe and just stared. Longed. Wished. Thought. Thought that if he hadn't been so stubborn, so stupid, so naïve, maybe Blaine would be alive. Maybe they would be together again. Forever. Like they said they would be.
More tears coated the page with Kurt's grief. And he remembered the words he had spoken to Blaine, once, long ago.
'I'll never say goodbye to you.'