What had been obvious to everyone around him for ages became clear to Gilbert over the course of that next week: his intense and borderline obsessive work ethic had been a coping mechanism; a means of hiding from the true pain he was feeling at losing Anne. Yes, it had been the nauseating pompasity of the other candidates for the Gold Medal that had opened Gilbert's eyes to just how narrow his world had become since his breakup. But, still, perhaps it meant he was over her?, he wondered one afternoon on a walk down the waterfront between classes. Stopping in his tracks, he stated aloud matter-of-factly:

"Who am I kidding?"

He sighed, out of breath, and found a seat for a quick break.

He ran his cap around and around in his hands. Gilbert Blythe had been taken with Anne Shirley-Cuthbert since the moment she'd read aloud in class oh-so-many years ago. He hadn't always known his heart but, now that he did, there was no denying the truth: he was in love with her and he always would be. There was simply no getting over Anne with an E. He felt a pang in his chest and his lunch turn over in his stomach at the thought of it.

Gazing out across Lake Ontario, Gilbert felt the air pulling into his lungs and pushing out. Pulling in and pushing out. Fatigued, he found it difficult to will himself up and atom again. He assumed that feeling anchored to the floor was yet another side effect of heartbreak; he was entirely in the depths of despair, as Anne would say. So lost in this meditation that he failed to properly acknowledge the peculiarity of his needing a rest on such a short stroll in the first place.

It was a few weeks before Christine reappeared at school. Her beloved grandfather had taken ill and she'd been summoned to his bedside to say goodbye. The doctors were certain he was on death's door. "Any day now," they'd say every time Christine suggested that perhaps it was time for her to be off. Too much time away and she'd never catch up with Gi - the others, she tried to explain tactfully to any family member who would listen. Unexpectedly, on day 20, the old man rallied! He almost blew a gasket when he learned that such a fuss had been made and lovingly sent Christine back where she belonged.

Christine rejoined the breakfast crew at Harris' that Wednesday unexpectedly and was surprised to see Gilbert among the group. "The prodigal son returns," she joked as she pulled up a chair opposite where Gilbert was sitting. "Nice to see you, Gil."

"You too, Chris."

They smiled at one another and it was right then, right there, that she saw it. She hated the fact that she had committed his sparkling eyes to memory; after all, a friend doesn't lose themselves in another friend's eyes but now was not the time to run through that internal tug-of-war for the one millionth time. Something was different about Gilbert. Something was wrong. She had trouble putting her finger on it but it was almost as though there was a film on his eyes or a dim somehow. It was subtle, sure, but it was there. A dark grey screen between him and the rest of the world. Was his breakup with Anne to blame for this? she wondered. Could heartbreak be the cause? She supposed it was possible.

She pulled John aside after breakfast and asked if he'd noticed anything out of the ordinary about Gilbert.

"Well, gee, I don't know Christine. His order? I always took Gilbert for a bacon man but if memory serves he had the ham today did he not?"

"Never mind," she sighed. In her experience, men were not the most observant generally and John was particularly hopeless. "Let's get out of here, Johnny boy."

She tucked in her chair and picked up her briefcase. Glancing quickly across the table, she noted that Gilbert hadn't touched his breakfast.

The winter semester ambled along at U of T. Come April, the snow had melted for the most part and the city streets were a mess of slush and muck. It was a particularly damp spring but Gilbert was lucky enough to find a dry spot on the steps of City Hall one Thursday afternoon on a long break between classes. He'd gone for a walk in search of a sandwich as a means of calming a particularly torturous headache and had gotten his hands on a delicious-looking ham on rye. He took a large bite and leaned back back against the stone railing to savour it. He'd had a lot of headaches of late, but this one was particularly intense. Fortunately, the sandwich lived up to expectations: it was absolutely delicious. Unfortunately, on the second bite, his stomach turned unexpectedly and he found himself spitting it out into his handkerchief.

He put his head on his hands, trying to block the sun in his eyes and stop the throbbing in his temples. He closed his eyes and counted slowly to thirty, thinking if he could just focus his mind things would improve. 1, 2, 3 … 4, 5, 6 … 28, 29, 30 … He opened his eyes, his vision blurred, and looked all around trying to will the city scene back into focus. It was then that he looked up and saw her.

"Anne?" he said aloud to no one but himself. No, it couldn't be, he thought, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Again, he opened his eyes.

Across the street was the figure of a woman about Anne's height with that fiery red hair Anne was known for. She was dressed handsomely and carrying a briefcase, or a portfolio maybe. She was accompanied by an older woman and the two of them were pouring over a piece of paper - a map maybe? - and gesturing left and right.

"Marilla" Gilbert said aloud, again. "Marilla and Anne! But it can't be …?" He dropped his handkerchief and stood suddenly, losing his balance. He stumbled down the steps in their direction.

"Anne? Anne! Over here!" he shouted. It was a busy time of day with pedestrians and carriages moving left and right, to and fro. Gilbert dodged them as best he could but he hadn't yet entirely regained his focus and it was clear to onlookers that he didn't have his balance about him at this moment either.

"ANNE!" he called as loud as he could, and he swore he saw the two women look up. At that moment, he stepped into the street. Whether it was the slush or the streetcar tracks, bystanders couldn't be sure. What they did know is that the young man had fallen and fallen hard. Gilbert flailed about disoriented in a large puddle of brown water. On the other side of the street, the Queen streetcar whizzed by. He mustered all of his strength and focused his eyes on where the women had been standing.

They were gone.

"What do you mean he fainted? Where?" asked Christine.

"In the street somewhere; I'm not sure," answered Paul.

"Where is he?"

"Toronto General. Come on. Let's go!"

Christine and Paul headed for the hospital on foot. Lewis and John were already there. The three gentlemen had run into a classmate from their biology lab who'd witnessed the whole thing first hand.

"How is he?" asked Christine, out of breath.

"We don't know. They haven't told us anything yet," explained John.

Lewis added: "We're not family so I wonder if -"

"Family!" interjected Christine. "Bash. We have to send a telegram to Bash right away."

"Yes, you're right," said Lewis. "And to …" he added, trailing off. They all stood in silence for a moment wondering if they should or shouldn't find a way to reach Anne. Whether they independently reached the same conclusion or whether Christine simply set the question aside on their behalf in service of moving forward, it was hard to tell. Regardless, it was decided that John would send the telegram, Lewis would head back to Gilbert's rooming house and pack him a bag, Paul would track down his professors to let them know he'd be absent for a few days (hopefully only a few), and Christine would stay at the hospital and press for more information when the doctors next did their rounds.

John was the first to finish his task and make his way back to the hospital. There, he found Christine at Gilbert's bedside. She was holding his hand, and it was clear as day that she'd been crying. Not wanting to interrupt an unexpectedly intimate scene, John quietly retreated to the hospital waiting room. The others did the same and there they waited through the night. It wasn't until the next morning that they got the answers they were after:

Gilbert had contracted typhoid fever. Gilbert might die.