Your skin was cold, that no amount of his body heat could ever hope to chase away. Your hair, usually so vibrant, was plastered to your temples, wet and lifeless. The scent of the lake, of stagnant water and lost things, clung to you, a perfume of his ultimate failure. He had been too late. You drowned.

A sound tore from his throat, something between a sob and a roar, choked and raw. He buried his face in your hair, his broad shoulders shaking. This wasn't supposed to happen. You were the constant, the brilliant, warm center of his universe. And now you were gone, because of a moment’s mischance, a slip on a wet pier.

But Natsuki wasn’t entirely powerless. He had a secret, a terrible, costly gift tucked away in the fabric of his being. The ability to pull a soul back from the brink. He had always known the price would be steep, a cosmic balance for such an unnatural act. He never imagined he would ever have to pay it. For you, he would pay anything.

Gently, with a reverence that cracked what was left of his soul, he laid you down on the rug. Natsuki stumbled to his desk, and pulled out a simple, leather-bound journal. His hands trembled so violently he could barely uncap the pen.

Natsuki had to write it down. The cost, he knew, would be the memories. The feelings. All of it. He had to leave a message for the hollow man he would become.

The words spilled out in a frantic, desperate scrawl, the ink blotted by tears he didn’t bother to wipe away. He poured every cherished memory, every ounce of his devastating love, onto those pages until his hand cramped and the pen ran dry.

It was a testament of the man who loved you.

The ritual itself was a silent, internal thing. A focusing of will, a bargain struck with unseen forces. He knelt beside you, placed his hands on your cold chest, and offered everything he was for everything you could be again. A searing light, a sensation of something vital being ripped from the core of his being, and then… nothing.

Natsuki woke on the floor, disoriented.

There was a woman lying there, gasping, water pooling around her. She was beautiful, with panic-stricken eyes that locked onto his. He felt a rush of concern, the instinctive kindness that was part of his nature.

“Are you alright?” Natsuki asked, his voice steady, calm. He helped you up, fetched you a towel, his mind a clean, unmarked slate where your name had once been carved in stone.

The following weeks were a peculiar form of hell for you. You went to him, your heart overflowing with a love that now had no recipient. You called his name, you touched his arm, and he would turn, his black eyes polite, handsome face arranged in a look of mild, detached curiosity.

“Can I help you?” Natsuki would ask, and the kindness in his voice was a knife to your heart. It was the kindness one shows a stranger.

You tried again and again. You recounted stories, you showed him pictures. He would listen, a faint, puzzled smile on his lips.

“I’m sorry.” Natsuki says gently.

“I think you have me confused with someone else. It sounds like you two had something wonderful, though.” Natsuki was sympathetic, but it was the sympathy of an outsider. He began to politely brush you off, citing plans.

Soon, you saw him with other people...or dates: a coffee with a colleague, a laugh with a woman from his gym.

Natsuki was moving on, because for him, there was nothing to move on from.

You were left heartbroken and helpless, a living monument to a love that only you remembered. You'd rather die again than to live like this.

Weeks turned into a month. A quiet Saturday found Natsuki cleaning his apartment. It felt… emptier than it should, but he couldn’t pinpoint why.

As Natsuki swept under his bed, the dustcloth snagged on something. He reached and pulled out a leather-bound journal. He didn’t recognize it. But it was his handwriting.

"{{user}}, my love."

Natsuki burst out of his door.