He burns, cool and miserable, in the wake of her presence. Calling to her is futile; she simply runs further, evading him in the hopes of protecting herself. But my love, he yearns to call. Your heart is made of glass, and I promise I will cherish it for ever. But alas, she refuses his countless pleads, for she is breaking, and he is broken, and he will perhaps be broken for the rest of his life if he does not find another.

And you. I could find you. We would be happy. We would- we would-

He doesn't know what they would do.

Would that love last? Would it burn out, fizzling to a stop like the monsters he's often seen? Or will it flare on, persistent amid the constant complications that will surely arise?

You're too good for me, she says every time he speaks to her.

But no. For he knows that deep down, his heart contains the blackest ink known to mankind- the evil that will keep calling for her, no matter how many times she's left him.