James Carstairs had a soothing effect on me, he was the only person to ever escaped my wrath. He knew everything about me—save the curse; it killed me inside every time he looked at me with those odd—beautiful—silver eyes dull with disappointment. I couldn't risk killing him faster by loving him.

I succumbed to that, of course, that night on Blackfriars Bridge, a month or so after he'd come. We were about ten then. By the Angel, he looked so beautiful: so strange and ethereal with the half moon's glow turning his gray streaked hair and dark gray eyes silvery-white, shining off his pale skin. And then he looked up at me, sleepy eyes wide, and he smiled at something I'd said, and I heard him laugh for the first time.

I swear, I could have kissed him then.

I should've...shouldn't have waited nearly nine years for that opportunity to come. I took it though, kissed him. And he jerked back, looking at me with those odd—beautiful—silver eyes wide in shock. I couldn't take it anymore, I was addicted, I kissed him again.

And this time, he slowly kissed me back.

I was like his instrument: he played me in every way possible, made me fall into his subtle traps. He'd planned for that night, the night where we...

Killed our first Greater Demon.

Hah, thought I was going to say that, didn't you? No, he did plan the demon kill though. Didn't plan...that. It was just...he was so adorable, (he insisted he was sexy) sprawled in a chair in the library, half asleep, staring at me with tousled hair (he'd been sleeping, though he stated otherwise) and lidded eyes and rumpled clothes. I had to.

I could swear by the Angel that we were meant to be together, in this way. We fit together with no gaps: psychically mentally, emotionally.

James Carstairs. We were both cursed, you know. He was cursed to die, I was cursed to love him (whomever I loved would die). To love him meant his death, to not love him was the both of our deaths. I'd kill myself to be with him. Really. Except...he didn't really love me, in the end. He wanted me, but when it came down to it, he chose Tessa. Even now, I think, what was so good about her? What did she have that I didn't?

Which was why I pretended to love her. To see what she had. What was it? Nothing.

By the Angel, he made me feel again. If I was ice, he was the gentle flame: he melted me to become like putty in his hands. I was more distraught when he became a Silent Brother than when I'd thought he'd died. It sounds stupid and petty, but I wanted us to die together. The pain when our parabatai connection was severed was nothing compared to the pain, agony, in my heart. I would've killed myself to be with him, my angel, my Jem. I had nothing to live for anyway, and everyone said that William Herondale would never live a long life, so why bother trying? Without Jem, my Jem, being alive was a chore, a living hell.

So why am I still here? Well, that comes later.

And the innocence in those odd—beautiful—silvery eyes had been completely and utterly shattered, and now I couldn't kiss the pain away. I would never be able to kiss those smiling lips.

Never be able to run my fingers down that trembling body.

Never make him call my name.

Never be able to see him again. Ever.

But when I saw him for the last time we'd be the same age, he whispered something in my head. "Wo ai ni, William Herondale. Wo hui yongyuan ai ni. Huozhe dui wo lai shuo."

And I don't know how I knew, but I did, that it meant: I love you, William Herondale. I'll always love you. Live, for me.

James Carstairs was many things to me, my first brother, my first friend, my parabatai, and dare I say it? My first love.

And he made me...

Yukuai.

Happy.