AN: Aaand we're back to your regularly scheduled angst.
He wonders when he will stop losing the people he loves; wonders if it's just his cross to bare in this life; wonders if-wherever she is-she, too, is staring at the dark sky and asking what's become of him.
(He wonders, how many times can you lose a person before the loss is all that remains?)
A part of him had known, too, had felt it from that first moment when she'd remembered him in New York, that it was a mere matter of time before she'd be torn from him again. He wonders if-should the unthinkable happen, should they not be able to save her, should she be lost to them forever-time will ever dull the ache in his chest; if anything will be able to fill the hole she's left there.
(He's inclined to think not.)
He wonders if perhaps they're meant to live like this, constantly being ripped apart. He wonders if there is a universe-amidst all these infinite ones-in which they manage to grit their teeth and continue holding on, to clutch each other for dear life, so close that nothing is able to sever them. (Finding her has never been the issue- it is holding on, it is keeping her, which proves impossible.)
He wonders if she is alright; wonders-worries-whether or not the immeasurable strength she possesses has finally met its match.
Each night, as his head hits the pillow, with the last of the energy his aching body possesses, he whispers into the silence that he loves her.
(He wonders if she can hear him; if she still remembers the weight of love in her heart, if it's still the slow burn coursing through her, as it is for him.)
His last thought before unconsciousness takes him is that he's going to find her or die trying. The absoluteness of this fact is a part of him; he can feel it in the blood pumping through his veins and the nerves sparking beneath his skin, in the marrow of his bones and the notches of his spine.
(He wonders if-whatever state she's in-she can feel it, too.)