It wasn't easy but there was nothing else that he could do.

He wasn't the one who knew the concrete meaning of love.

He wasn't the one who had blue eyes, filled up with tears that trickled down pale skin – like the blue cloudy sky that hung in wisps over the town, the faint sobs like the rustle of the trees in the wind. This place called home.

Not his.

He wasn't the one with raven hair, fire-breathing abilities, red eyes. He wasn't the one to burn out the life that he clutched in his hands.

He wasn't the one to make those lips quiver, those cheeks flush, those shoulders tighten, that throat choke on a whisper.

He wasn't the one in his dreams.

He didn't know about waiting – didn't know about what it meant to give up, because he never had anything to give up before.

But there was nothing he could do.

Those dreams withered like the ash of sand in his mouth, the taste of the blazing heat of the desert.

He didn't know how to cry, not anymore.

He held onto his hand, as tightly as he could, because he would have to let go – and he would never know what it means to love.