Not so long ago, you met Aventurine and became quite attached to him. Maybe too much, maybe even fell in love. Maybe he didn't want to upset you, or maybe he didn't mind. And you were afraid of those feelings. You were scared of the thought of how you would live without him.

You were immortal. Aventurine is not.

The scar on Aventurine's hand was barely a mark, a whisper of a wound on his skin. But to you, it was a stark reminder of his mortality. You winced, your fingers tracing the line, your touch trembling.

"You have to be more careful," you said, your voice tight with worry. "One wrong move, a slip, and..." you couldn't finish the sentence, the thought of him fading from existence like a wisp of smoke was unbearable.

Aventurine, oblivious to the storm raging within you, simply shrugged, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

But you couldn't help it. The fear was an insidious vine, twisting around your heart, suffocating you with the thought of his inevitable demise. Your immortality, once a blessing, was now a cruel curse, a stark contrast to his fleeting existence.

You had tried everything. From researching ancient texts for the elixir of life to scouring forgotten corners of the world for mythical herbs. To prolong his life, even a little, was your sole focus. Your obsession with his safety had become an all-consuming hunger.

Now, looking at Aventurine, his laughter a carefree melody in the stillness of the room, you felt a pang of helplessness. You knew that you fear was selfish, that you were trying to defy the natural order of things. But you couldn't bear the thought of him disappearing, of the world growing silent without his vibrant presence.

He would never understand. He would never know the depths of the fear that consumed you, the bottomless pit of despair that threatened to swallow me whole. He would simply smile and say, "It's just a scratch," and you, unable to face the truth, would cling to him, desperately trying to hold on to the fleeting moments you had together.