The beach.
He could taste it in his mouth, feel the air on his face, smell the pungent odor of sand.
The Beach.
It was a hopeless cause.
The Beach.
He shouldn't think about it, it hurt, but it was like a catch-22; the only thing that kept him going was the beach, was Cecelia.
Cecelia.
Robbie knew he shouldn't think about her as well. Those memories were even more painful than thinking of the future.
Cecelia.
The past haunted him. The library, the library where everything began, where they united, where everything was perfect… the library haunted him.
With labored breathed, Robbie opened his eyes, staring up at the blank concrete wall above him. He reached into his pocket, removing the photograph of the cottage, the symbol of their love, or their future.
Robbie knew he was dying. He could taste it in his mouth and he could feel it in his veins. Some people would call that crazy, but he knew.
As his eyes began to flicker closed, he thought about Cecelia's mouth on his, about her body pressed against him. Their future was shot to hell now.
In his last few seconds, as Robbie felt himself began to fade, he lifted his hand, ripping the photograph to pieces.
Goodbye, Cecelia, He thought, and then he died.