Aya knows what it is like to be happy. When she was fifteen, happiness was about hanging out with her friends and singing karaoke (but not very well - she admits that now. She's never been much of a singer). Being happy was natural, and so very simple. Like living. Like breathing.

But Aya is older now, and knows that nothing is ever so simple. Living can be hard, even when you having something to live for. Sometimes people try to take life away from you and it is hard, so very hard to stop them. Even breathing is difficult sometimes. Aya knows. Sometimes she hears the catch of Touya's breath as he lies prone in their bed and feels his pain like it is her own.

He's ill now, worse than he ever has been. They've had two blissful years together. She doesn't think there will be a third.

Touya is sleeping. Aya lies down next to him, her forehead pressed against his own. She reaches for his hand, so large compared to her own dainty palm. His fingers curl around hers, warm and strong.

Aya has learnt a different kind of happiness: her child's smile, Touya's gentleness, sunshine on a winters day - these things, beautiful and fleeting but forever - are all she needs.

Touya's chest rises and falls in a steady, comforting rhythm. Aya tries to match it: breath to breath. Heartbeat to heartbeat. He hasn't left her yet.

Aya closes her eyes.

Breathes.