"And then there's the worst. Then there are things you hope never end. But when the worst ones end, you know. It's not unexpected. It's not sudden. There's no, 'I never thought that would be the last.' Every moment of it is the last."
There are certain things you never really expect to come to an end, and you never really notice when they do. Logically, you know they will at some point, but you never think of it. She didn't know, for example, that the last time she carried the children to their beds from the hovercar was going to be the last time ever. She didn't even know when that last time had been.
Then there are the things you never expect to come to an end, and when they do, it's the only thing you can notice. Her normal life coming to an end had been the first she could remember. For the first year, the only thing she could think about was desperately screaming her brothers' names, doing everything she could to climb out from under the rubble and find them, praying she hadn't been the only one to survive.
And then there's the worst. Then there are things you hope never end. But when the worst ones end, you know. It's not unexpected. It's not sudden. There's no, "I never thought that would be the last." Every moment of it is the last. Knowing that something you'd hope would never end was drawing closer and closer to ending no matter what you did… she could hardly take it.
The most horrible thing about it was that he'd been the one to realize. She wondered sometimes, not that she could bring herself to ask him, just how long he'd known before he told her. How long before the night that he broke down in tears after kissing their twins goodnight and confessed to her, had he kept that secret?
She'd never forget that moment as long as she lived, which she selfishly hoped wouldn't be much longer. The image of him sobbing, turning away from her to hide his tears, was forever burned into her mind. His head had been leaned up against the door, right below the dinosaur sticker that displayed their sons' name, and the dolphin sticker that displayed their daughters, and he whimpered, begging her not to ask what was wrong.
But she had anyway. Maybe if she hadn't it wouldn't have happened.
"Please," he'd begged, "I don't want to."
"Don't want to, what?" she'd questioned, anxiety turning her voice harsh against her will.
He'd flinched and then threw himself around her, tear-streaked face pressing against her neck the way he'd only done after the night terrors began. He wasn't crying about aliens, or space ships, or even being turned into a mantlepiece, anymore. This was something worse.
"I'm going to die," he finally confessed, after she'd dragged him into the living room and prepared a cup of tea so he could cry in peace. His voice was thick and jagged, and terrifyingly honest. "I'm going to die," he repeated more quietly, when she didn't respond.
His plants, he'd explained, were killing him. No matter how much he ate, how much water he drank, or how much time he spent lying in the sun, his body just couldn't continue to supply enough energy to keep them both alive. He'd run some tests when he began feeling weak and sluggish, which she hadn't known of. The results, he concluded, tears welling up again, all told him that the energy was all going to the flower.
And nothing he tried made it stop.
Once she'd known, she noticed it every day. The exhaustion. The way he leaned heavily on his desk if he stood for too long. The way he could hardly walk from their bedroom to the kitchen without trying to hide his labored breaths.
And over the span of the year, it had only gotten worse. One day, he had finally stopped being able to get out of bed in the morning. Oh, but the flower was just fine. It whipped around their entire home, bringing him glasses of water and bowls of soft foods when she wasn't there to get them to him first.
She hated that flower, that pink petaled murderer.
She began shifting him into a wheelchair at dawn, to bring him into the sun for the day. It was the only way he could stay awake long enough to speak to the twins, who increasingly dreaded going to visit him. And she couldn't blame them. For every bit more green and vibrant his flower became, he became weaker, paler, more unfocused, and unsteady. He looked gaunt - as if he was dead twice already.
Knowing was the worst.
She knew every day.
Every morning she woke up to hear his labored breaths, she knew it might be the last she heard him take.
Every afternoon when he forced his arms around the kids in a hug so weak it hardly counted, she knew it might be the last he ever gave.
Every night when he whispered his love for her as she tucked him into bed, she knew they might be the last words he ever spoke.
And when, one particularly sunny afternoon, his hand had wrapped around her wrist to stop her on her way to get him food, she'd known. "I'll love you forever," he promised her softly, pulling for her to come closer. He pulled her with more strength than he'd displayed in months, though it wouldn't have been enough to topple a pebble.
His lips were chapped and dried against hers as his hand strayed from her wrist to her face, cradling her cheek the way he used to so long ago. He tasted of honeysuckle and mint, so wrong and different from the sugary syrups and hints of chocolate he used to taste of.
It was hardly a kiss, but it was the closest thing that he could give. His lips never moved against hers, except a wobble born more of frustration than of passion. She knew if he could, it would have been him crying instead of her, but his eyes were perpetually dry so it was her tears that slipped down his cheeks.
"I'll love you forever."
And hydrangeas sprouted from his grave.