Love; forever changing, molding to hearts like water in a glass. No matter the shape of the glass, no matter how cracked, it fills the broken gaps that were once undamaged— and for a moment, makes it whole again.

But what if a heart has no love to fill its cracks? It seeks it out, scouring for something it has never felt. Is it really as how people describe it to be? A blooming warmth in the center of your chest?

All that he feels is a gaping hole where his aching heart resides, beating only for the day of its death, when it finally stills and he can finally rest his weary eyes.

He deserves it too, right? The love he sees around him, the joy, the ease of loving; he deserves that too, right?

Even as he lays in bed, enveloped in his cover's warm, artificial embrace, he still feels cold.

When will he find someone to hold? Feel something real and not simply something his mind forms for comfort? Maybe he was never meant for it at all, born to carry the weight of sorrow alone.

It hurts, but he still has a duty to fulfill. When this all ends, maybe he will too.