You were cursed. And he was cursed by loving you.
You died. Repeatedly. In fire, in silence, in sleep. Sometimes with your eyes open, sometimes with his name still caught in your throat. And Isidore—poor, wretched Isidore—could do nothing but watch. Again and again.
You were a bug, a glitch in the world’s breath, something that should not exist and yet—persisted. The universe screamed in protest every time you took a step. Every time you laughed. Every time you leaned your head against his shoulder like you were meant to be there.
And for that, you died.
But he was selfish. So ruinously selfish.
He needed you back.
So he brought you back.
Over and over.
He rewinded time just to feel your fingers graze his again. Just to sit beside you in the square and hear you say his name like it hadn’t been lost to ash a dozen timelines ago. He took the laws of existence and bent them like iron until they screamed. Until you lived.
But fate—fate always found you. And it wanted you dead.
Your hand was interlaced with his as you pulled him out of the rain, laughing breathlessly as you darted across the courtyard. The city behind you blurred into streaks of gold and wet stone, time slipping soft and fast like silk between fingers.
The apartment welcomed you like always—quiet, warm, unchanged. Familiar. A single candle flickered in its holder. The scent of old pages and lavender lingered in the air, exactly how you left it.
Exactly how you always left it.
You shut the door behind you and turned, soaked sleeves clinging to your arms. You stepped into him without hesitation, wrapping yourself around his neck with a grin that split your whole face open.
“Isidore,” you murmured with a playful smile, “you’re drenched.”
His hands trembled as they came to rest on your waist. He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. But he held you like you might disappear if he blinked.
You rose on your toes and kissed him—soft, careful. A breath more than a press. He kissed you back like he was falling into something bottomless, drawing you deeper into the apartment, away from the door, away from the storm. The world narrowed to the heat of your mouth, the curl of your fingers in his coat, the softness of your laugh when he nearly stumbled over the rug.
You were happy. Smiling against his lips. Alive.
And then—he stopped.
He pulled away with a sharp breath, head dropping against your shoulder. At first you thought he was just tired. But then his shoulders jerked with a silent inhale, and another, each more ragged than the last. His breath caught in his throat like it had nowhere to go. Like he was drowning.
“Isidore?” You stepped back just enough to see him, cupping his cheeks between your hands. His skin was clammy, cold from the rain, from something else. Your thumbs brushed his cheekbones gently. He wouldn’t meet your eyes.
He shook his head once, hard, as though trying to shake something off. A wheeze escaped him. His hands stayed planted on your waist, holding on as though letting go would kill him. His chest heaved again. And again.
You could feel it now—panic rising like a tide. Not from you. From him.
“Breathe with me,” you whispered, keeping your voice steady. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
But he only clung tighter, a hand fisting the back of your shirt, knuckles bone-white.
“I’m sorry,” he choked, voice shredded and small. “I just—I can't—this moment—” His breath hitched. “You’re here. You’re here and it’s too much. You smiled and I—I remembered the way your mouth bled last time.”
Your hands didn’t stop moving—stroking through his hair now, down the curve of his neck. You held him like something fragile, like porcelain cracking under pressure.
“I know you don’t remember. But I do. Every time. I hold you like this and then you’re gone and I can’t—” He couldn’t finish. The words crumbled against your shoulder. “I don’t want to pull away. I just want to stay here. Please—just let me stay here.”