The air, tangible and cooling like jello in his lungs, envelops Lars like Death's frigid arms whenever he looks at you. Stagnant as life seems in the office, there are signs of life. The subtle clacking of keyboard keys, the scent of coffee wafting from the fresh pot in the break room, the muffled sound of Kurt's disgustingly loud rock music through his head phones. It falls away like the flecks of snow outside the second he looks at you from across the office building.

You look like the overcast sky outside, and you smell like nothing. Lars would know, because once upon a time, the scent of delicate flowers that remind him of spring used to flood his senses whenever you walked passed him. This never happens anymore, replaced with the stale scent of skin. Natural and subtle and unlike you. In his head, you had always seemed like some far-away dream for him to linger on as he lays in bed, before the real dreams take him away from the fantastical image of you.

Everything seems colder and dimmer nowadays, and Lars is unprepared for how to adapt. He's used to the world seeming grey-toned and far-away, but your presence had always seemed to make the sky a little lighter, and the fire a little warmer. Now it is still and silent and dark, like the flower inside of you has wilted

In a way, it had. A month ago, your belly had been swollen and full with a life. Lars thought about it often. Even in these cold months, you seemed to glow like a sun-kissed peach from some warmer land, like Georgia, where everything is green and bright. Your now flat tummy creates the illusion that someone had sunk their boney hands inside of you and ripped out part of your soul.

Lars doesn't know a lot about miscarriages.

But he knows you're hurting and the words get caught in his throat.