"All of it is meaningless, a chasing after the wind."

-Ecclesiastes 2:17

--

She knows he would not have chosen her, given the chance, but after three years he forgets to distinguish between chance and choice.

Frankly, he was going mad, but of course he never permitted her to address this aloud.

Besides, she feared what might happen if she dissented.

He claimed he still saw beauty, still maintained a hope for humanity, but he grew detached and this onset of hopelessness was something strange.

…At night she asked him to name the stars- though more for his sanity than her benefit- until finally one evening he announced that they'd reached the limitations of the heavens…at least, from this window. She could not think of a single word to say that would alleviate his distress…though she had the impression he did not expect her to.

…The following dusk he'd produced a telescope, but it could not produce new stars.

--

She mourned him quietly, kept her regrets to herself, disavowed all expectations, and deemed him inconsolable.

Her angel had fallen to earth.

--

As she grew weaker, she grew ever surprised of his ambivalence.

He often wept at her bedside, which broke her heart, as did his inclination to wrench the curtains open and gaze wildly up at the sky, in wait. "I'll think of something and save us both," he promised.

--

Desperate was the word that came to mind…lost is what it might've come down to…and trapped is what he would've bared his teeth and said, but she was careful never to ask for his opinion.

By the time she could accurately give method to his madness, she was already too sick to tolerate much more of his pretense. Initially, he praised the life behind a saturated grin: "It's wonderful," and to some extent, he meant it. There was a fascination with the mundane that kept her convinced he was not cold-blooded. "…I've always fancied a life like this…"

Months later, frigidly, and on the verge of regret, he let it slip, "…Though, I never actually thought I'd…" but then recanted.

She had overheard countless conversations he'd had with himself, in which he was always polite, always optimistic…taking care to hide the failure harassing his convictions. He'd used words like "perverse", and "ironic", and "in vitro", and would always end his disorganized speeches with, "…It's a funny old life…"

Evocatively, he would ask the air, "Do I deserve this?"

Perchance he wanted her to overhear.

--

During the final hours, he could not sit still and would not wait for her to die. He perched on her deathbed and held her hand, but his grip was prone to loosen. "I love you," he said- sincerely- but he did not look at her.

Instead, he stared into the fireplace.

--

He was not authorized to be alone with her when she passed, and therefore did not know her last words.

His last words to her were: "This is worse than I ever could've imagined."

--

Imagination kept him stable long after she was gone.