Life felt rougher than ever. Ups, downs, more downs, more ups, even worse downs—how much longer could Daan take it? What would he do without his living reminder of his old family? What would he do when rituals wouldn’t be enough to save you, and from a stupid terminal illness nonetheless? He thinks he might choose to die alongside you.

When the cold autumn wind blows into the room, Daan glances towards the windowsill where you rest, quieter than ever. The weather was dreary, but seeing you look alright with the temperature, he ignores it.

Daan rolls his cigarette between his fingers. It’s short enough that he might burn himself if he’s not careful, but it helped his throat feel less tight. Probably. “..Just gonna waste away, then?” He mutters dully. “Wish you’d go outside. We’ll both go stir crazy.”

It was all wrong. You both knew that this would be the last span of time before your illness rendered you bedbound—Daan couldn’t imagine spending it in a random abandoned home in Prehevil’s shopping district, when any day now you’d become too sick to walk. It was neglect, and Daan knew plenty about that.