You see him there is the dying light. His jaw is strong and his chest is rising, slowly, deep breaths, and you know he's fighting tears because you've all made it this far (and yet not all of you've made it this far, have you?).

(He's the Boy Who Lived.)

This is it. You have your chance to be one of two things.

You can walk away now. You can turn and fall into the emptiness, that grief; you can drown in despair. You can hide from the limelight and from the emerald light that burns in his eyes. You don't have to see him again and you don't have to fall in love and you don't have to pretend you're okay and you can spend your life alone and quiet.

(They could call you the Girl Who Broke His Heart.)

Or.

Or you could kiss him now under the star strewn sky. You could run your fingers through his hair and look into his bright green eyes for the first time in months and you could tell him.

Tell him you love him.

Then you could walk away, into the sunset, hand in hand.

(And they could call you the Girl Who Gave Him Life.)

Before you know it, you stand before him. Glassy-eyed and world-weary, this is the man you've chosen.

You tell him with fluttering, butterfly kisses and restless hands that brush through his hair and tangle and it's almost like you're telling him you'll never let go.

(And he calls you My Girl.

Isn't that all you need?)