Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump.

I'm on your chest, listening to your heartbeat, counting how many times your ribs expand... and contract. Checking to see if you are still alive. Because your face is dead and there is no longer any sign of life swimming through your eyes. Your skin has lost all pigment and warmth, and your limbs fail to move.

Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump.

I don't want you to be sad. It pains me physically when you're upset. I need you here, with me. You make each day a little more bearable.

Ba bump.

One.

Ba bump.

Two.

Ba bump.

Three. They're gradually becoming slower; it's as if your heart is straining itself, trying to pump oxygen-rich blood throughout your body, becoming discouraged when it is rejected.

And then I get scared. Because I don't hear the fourth one, and I cannot feel the labored breaths pushing their way through your throat. Your eyes are so empty, hollow, aimlessly staring up at the nomadic clouds, that I think life has truly left your body. But then I see a liquid ripple up from your lower lid and overflow; you blink.

And the most unexpected thing happens. As I'm transfixed by the miniature stream that has begun to flow on your face, your lips part and slowly grasp the concept of moving simultaneously with your tongue, releasing a fragment of your sorrow to the sky.

"People don't just do that. They can't right? They can't just walk out of your life, when you were... so..."

You don't give the rest of your thought away. Instead, you cinch your eyebrows together and make a face, attempting to limit the pain from manifesting itself onto your cheeks. We lie there, just you and me; you, who has become conscious again but is still oblivious of me, who will always love you, but will remain oblivious of what it is to have that same love returned.

Minutes pass. Somehow, you find the strength to raise your head just enough to identify the strange mass weighing on your abdomen.

"Oh... Iroha," you breathe, coming back down to your bed of soil and grass. "Iroha... hm. You have a lovely name."

It almost doesn't reach my ears, the beautiful words you strain to speak. When I hear it, my eyes grow moist from the pure tenderness of it all. I cannot bear it.

I manage to compose myself, but when I do, I find that you have allowed your lungs to breathe freely. Upon further investigation, I catch a glimpse of your peacefully closed eyes and relaxed face. You resemble an angel; your platinum hair gleams from the sun and is playfully tousled by the breeze. I reach my fingers up greedily to grasp it, to stroke it and feel its feather-like softness.

The birds chirp their occasional song, sunlight enrobes the two of us, and time seems to evaporate. I am fooled into thinking I've been lying there with you for a century.

It takes tremendous resolve, but I finally leave. My body is stiff and sore, and protests as I move away from your sleeping face. I am then struck with the overwhelming urge to kneel down and press my lips to your temple. But I know that is not right, and I cannot steal things like that. So I turn on my heel and pace across the grasses, towards the smallest of three large houses scattered across the field, internally scolding myself.

I seem to want all that is not mine.

End Chapter I