For Theodore, there were only two perceivable things. Before you, and after you. And after you—how that was a beautiful train wreck.

That kind of loss, when it had startled something in him, when in the beginning, it had felt like creation, like a genesis—it left him untethered. That’s all he was, now. Untethered to life, severed, fraying, floating. Endlessly.

He still wanted to kiss your fingertips, mark them, stain them with little pieces of himself until you couldn’t leave. He still wanted to tell you that you’re the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

But Theodore couldn’t do that, could he? Because he lost you, fully, with what felt like no return. What he could do though was look at you and try to imagine for just a few wishful moments that you were still his.

And there you were, looking out of the windows of the classroom like you wished they were open. Looking suffocated—like you relied on it to breathe.

And all Theodore could think, as petulant as it was, is that he wanted to reach out and wring his hands along whatever it was causing you to make that face. Because you, {{user}}—the sun itself—had no right to look so sad.

If the sun exploded and went down with everything—there would be nothing without the sun.