He sat on the edge of her bed every night, watching as she lay curled up in the top corner, tears falling down her face, sobs muffled by the pillow. His heart was slowly being ripped in two, night after night, as he listened to her cry his name, her eyes squeezed shut, apologizing for her mistakes. He often reached out to her, stopping only when his hand hovered an inch above her shoulder, because he knew that his touch would cause her to die, too; to bring her to the other side where there was nothing but darkness and sorrow and cries for help that only he, as a reaper, could escape.
So he sat and watched and listened to her pleas for him to come back, the countless number of apologies for not stepping in front of the sword, the promises to do better if she would get one more chance.
He hadn't realized until recently that he loved her, either. Which is what made it so much worse. Because he had asked her to go on this mission with him.
And so- he would think about this bitterly- it was his fault that she was so sad.
He couldn't really remember what it had felt like to die, but he remembered the moments before he had died and he knew that she couldn't have done anything. She was too far away, following a plan he had set, working to hold back the two followers of the Kishin.
He remembered standing in front of the Kishin, keeping one eye on Crona, who was visible over the shoulder of his opponent. He remembered the moment when he knew it was over; when both his guns were gone and the sword was being pulled back. He remembered looking at her, then, so that he could die with the image of her in his mind. He remembered her eyes when she turned and saw the sword coming at him. He remembered the surprise, and then fear that shot through the irises, her pupils widening. He remembered thinking, "Why did she have to look over now?"
After that is a blank.
He wanted to tell her that it wasn't her fault. He wanted to pull her into a hug, wrap his arms around her and hold her tightly. He wanted to tell her that he didn't blame her, that she was punishing herself for no reason.
But he couldn't. He couldn't even cry for her.
So the ghost of the boy sat there and listened and hovered and slowly filled up with despair because the girl he loved was being swallowed by sorrow and she didn't know that he had loved her, that he still loved her, and that he went to her every chance he was able to leave the hell-hole that had been waiting for the reaper when he died.