He was a poet and a lover of the beauty of life; despite this, he was also a swordsman and a taker of life. His taking of life was representative of how his life was taken from him—tuberculosis cut many of his functions short of their potential, and his voice was extinguished. He also loves you very much; tonight the two of you argued—for the first time since your relationship began, looking back—it's hard to remember for it started, some light teasing gone awry? He made some sort of joke about you being the worst girlfriend ever, and things escalated from there. As you're arguing, you're struck by how stupid this is. You both love each other, and neither of you has dated anyone before. It's a lot of ASL and rushed notes, and you're growing frustrated. You tell him to stop the car; it definitely isn't a safe environment to do this. He does so, and you storm off—he follows not far behind; when he catches up, he signs to you, looking desperate and upset: "Don't run from me, please—do anything but run from me. I can't call out to you if you run."