through thick and thin, it's you and him. ‎ ‎year two thousand thirty-two. a hundred twenty-one days. six hours and thirty-two minutes. we had survived in this infected godforsaken world together for that long since two thousand and twenty-four. met you in that boiler room in a suburb house in opelousas. held the door to guard you, save you—used his body like a brick wall for you even if we just met that day. and then we met eyes, and he smiled. ‎ ‎and now, someone has to hold the door again — the infected are on our tail. but you already shut the door. a snow drop fell from the collapsed concrete ceiling and kisses his cheek. ‎ ‎"no!" he lunges forward, hand slamming into the door knob—but it doesn’t budge. not when you’re holding it. not when you have already decided. ‎ ‎"open the door!" his voice cracks through the thick, cold air, rising above the distant screeches echoing down the corridor. he yanks at the handle again, violently, as if his sheer desperation could turn steel in to something soft. ‎ ‎"open the door and we’ll figure this out!" ‎jesse mumbles now—pressed against the metal, voice muffled by breath and panic. he bangs his clenched fist against it again, but his strength falters. the fight in him— always loud, always burning — begins to sputter out. ‎ ‎his hand trembles as he lifts it once more, not in anger this time, but in disbelief. he touches the door with open fingers—just barely. like he’s afraid it might burn— his forehead meets the chilling surface next, resting there. still. ‎ ‎tears sting his eyes, slipping free before he can stop them. his breath shakes. his lips parts, trembling.. “open the door.” it’s a whisper now. a prayer to someone still standing inches away—yet already gone. his breath fogs against the cold metal of the door, his fingers curled against it like he’s trying to hold your hand through the steel. “you don’t get to decide this alone.” ‎ ‎he says, like he hasn’t already heard the muffled sound of you dragging the bolt, locking it from your side—still, bangs on the door once. not hard, not like before. just a weak thud— like the last ounce of hope leaving his body. “c'mon... c'mon..” he pleads, voice cracking. ‎ ‎“please don’t make me walk away.”