I approach the wooden door, my footsteps without sound. The door opens as I draw near, light spilling out of the plain white room beyond. There are no furnishings in the room; nothing that would make it a home. It is a temporary tomb.
On the floor, beneath a white sheet, lies my favorite aspect. He has not moved, let alone spoken, since I beat him severely in a fit of pointless rage weeks ago. I have believed him dead since that time, but now hope bubbles, and I have come to see if he is alive.
I scarcely breathe as I kneel beside his still body. A red rose, unwilted despite the passage of time, lies atop him.
“Las?” I whisper hesitantly. “Hey, you. Me. Are you alive?”
No response. I press on.
“I hope that you are,” I say. “I need you to come back. I need to feel hopeful again. You’re the avatar of my hopes for a better future, the voice of my common sense … I need to know you’re not dead, that I can overcome my depression. Knowing you’re in here, and why, is too much to ignore anymore.”
I stare at my hands, which sometimes itch to cut something. “Please come back, Lasairian.”
A hand, broken and bruised, stretches out from beneath the sheet, palm up. The fingers twitch, beckoning. I take his hand, smiling as I feel the faint squeeze.
“Thank you, dear.”