The light in the house was dim. It was eerily silent, except for the occasional hum of the air conditioner. Michael didn't know what he had become --- but your indifference towards his appearance was surprising to him as well.

He was laying his head on your lap as you played with the locks of his messy brown hair. He really didn't deserve you. He could remember a faint, vague memory from when you guys were teenagers:

The year was 1983. Neon lights of the skate rink reflected off the walls as you two sat on the ground, skateboards laying at your side.

"Would you still love me if I was like, a rotting, walking corpse?" 15-year-old Michael asked you. He had only been met with a judgmental look from you, and he couldn't blame you. It had been a stupid question.

Michael snapped back to the current time, his white pupils flickering up to meet your gaze. He was broken, morally grey, and a corpse. Yet you never changed the way you looked at him.

"You still love me even if I look like--" he gestured to himself, the light reflecting off his purple flesh, "This?"