I can't help it. It's not that I'm depressed, or that I hate myself or my family for leaving. This dull ache has been weighing on me since they died. I've never been truly happy before, in a way that's entirely artistic. I've accepted that. I almost enjoy this loneliness at times, but right now it's closing in on me and my eyes are starting to burn when I haven't cried in years. I can't help it. I'm standing by their grave and it starts to snow, of all things. I don't even care when it gets in my hair and melts and the icy water drips down my face.

A loud sniffle breaks my concentration. It almost annoys me. Why can someone else cry so easily when I've been numb for years? But when I turn to look at him, all of that fades away.

I know instantly that it's been recent. There are red rings around his eyes, prominent dark circles. His hair looks like he hasn't brushed it in days, and his face is pale. It's strangely, painfully beautiful how silently he cries, not even bothering to wipe at his tears.

He meets my eyes. We gaze at each other for a little while; I can see the remnants of curiosity in his hollow gaze. His eyes are a beautiful turquoise, soft and dull, and yet I know that they can sparkle, whether it be with anger or passion or happiness.

He feels strangely familiar, but I don't comment on it. I don't speak at all, and neither does he. We stand there, feeling strangely comforted by each other.

For the first time in years, I cry.