When I opened the door to his fate, to see him crouched on the ground, eyes misted over, I despaired. When he fell into my arms, I was happy. Even as he sobbed and shook, as I stroked his hair and he clung to me like a child, I was happy. I was glad for the warmth that soaked through his clothes, sinking into my skin, the feel of his hair brushing against my check. When he was on the brink of falling off the edge of what little sanity that he had, when he was choking up blood and crying, I was happy. Because it was at these times when he turned to me for help. I was remainder of a past that he could not escape, the sole person who witnessed him on the night that formed who he was today. The person who had held in when no one else would. When his eyes were glistening with tears, his spirit crushed and broken, I felt a sense of satisfaction. Because he smiled for someone else. Because he laughed for someone else. Because he loved someone else. I was happy when he was sad, because then, he would love me.