Shattered and broken. How does one move? How does one think? How does one breathe when you've lost the love of your life? He's gone. He's gone. My Eames is gone.
Breathing becomes hard. Getting out of bed in the morning becomes hard. Your only reason to live and breathe has gone. Left you alone.
You replay the memory, the memory of him slipping away. You tried to keep hold of his hand as the water tugged at his bulk of a body, but the water wanted him, the water wanted to carry him away. And it did.
You ran along the river, screaming your lovers name in the hope he'd appear before you, gasping in the water but all in all, alive.
You break down after what seems like days of searching, you let it all out, you scream but nothing comes out, just a broken sob. Eames.
A month later, you're still numb. You refuse to move.
You held a funeral, a funeral without a body. The open ocean has him now. He is drifting.
You hear a knock at the door, but stay you put. You have no reason to move. Your name is being called, a damaged and familiar voice "Arthur.." Can it be?
No. You can't move. You can't hope. Your mind is playing tricks. Eames is dead. He's gone. One single tear trails down your face.
As you sob into your pillow, you hear the click of the door. The clacking of shoes on the floor. You don't dare to look, you can't.
"Darling" You dare to look, and there he is. Covered in scars, limping, scabbing above his eyebrow.
You get up, slowly. Reaching out your hand to caress his cheek. He moves into your touch, purring like a cat, a hum of contentment. Tracing your fingers along his face, you pull him close, wrapping your arms around his waist as he wraps his shaking arms around your shoulders. Breathing each other in, you shake and sob.
Its him.