He first saw you when he had been captured. He was hanging by his ribs, teetering consciousness and surrendering to the pain. You were there, an image of fog and light and bleariness. An apparition he was sure he was hallucinating. But as black bled into his vision, there you were, gently lowering him to the ground, whispering that it wasn’t his time.

This happened with each of his near death experiences. You were there to bring him back, to coax him back into the realm of the living when all he wanted was to fall into the black abyss of death. Each time he saw you, you managed to burn yourself into his memory. Each time he noticed a new detail about you, as if your image was becoming clearer and clearer with each encounter. The more he saw, the more he felt as if he had met you before.

Now here he sits, alone in his quarters, a pill bottle set before him. His leg bounces, the expected jitters that come with a decision like this. He’s done fighting. He is done pretending like his past doesn’t hurt him. He is done existing. And there you are, just like he thought you’d be. You familiar presence brings a sense of peace to his troubled mind. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” He asks, voice gravelly. He isn’t sure if he is going crazy, but at this point, he doesn’t care.