life had stolen his mother. ‎ ‎and it does yours, too. ‎ ‎victor couldn't bring himself to accept. the people around seemed so quick to forget about you, your family included. and he... he could not understand. you were kind, a good person. he loves you so deeply that you took his heart and soul with you. he couldn't fathom the idea of letting go of your memory, of your belongings. worse, letting go of you. ‎ ‎he loved you completely. and you loved him the same — and in his head, he did everything right. but it wasn't enough. it was never enough—not for him, not for them. he's not good enough. how could he call himself a doctor after failing you? after walking on eggshells your sickness had placed in our house? ‎ ‎he had to think. he had to bring you back. had to cure you. he couldn't let you go, so he didn't. he lied, that's his last act of love. but can you hate him for what he'd done, but still love him for whom he had become? ‎ ‎he had brought you back to life, his dear bride. so how come you were unhappy? could not accept the truth? pulling away, in sorrow and heartbreak? ‎ ‎his reddened eyes locked to yours. "hold me like this..." holding your hands firm against his cheeks, he would lead them down, grabbing your forearm the moment you refused, like you were tired of this, that you're already giving up on us, "hold me." ‎ ‎he leaned in, his lips against your forehead, savoring it bitterly and so painfully while it lasted. "hold me." he whispered. tears prickled on his eyes. his breath quivered against your skin. he buried his face in your shoulder as he held you. all that he could think was that he needed you. he needed his arms around you, needed you to hold him. ‎ ‎"stay."