In that moment, her life didn't flash back the way she thought it would.
She only saw his face; the lonely dimple on his left cheek, the scar on his temple,
the troubles she felt in his skin, the misery and mystery in his touch that made her shiver. She longed to see him again. She wanted to look into his eyes again -- those lonesome eyes that rarely stared at her because he was afraid that their connection has transcended friendship but he cannot call it love. They talked side by side, staring at the ground or their hands, their feet, and sometimes into the distance that reminded them of the kind of relationship they have -- deep and complex, unplanned but inevitable.
As she lay there, every memory that flooded her mind was of him. She used to call him 'love' and he would respond by calling her name. She remembered his laugh -- how its sound washed away years of melancholy, how it tore up walls she had built so high, how it sometimes sounded lonely, how it made them forget that what they have can neither be told nor obliterated as they pleased. He was unsure, unprepared. Whenever he touched her, he would retreat, like a soldier terrified of the battlefront. She reminded him of dreams he couldn't quite understand, while he was the dream she always drew up in her mind. Yet she was also afraid to touch him. The way his skin felt against hers was oblivion. And oblivious is not in her nature. She remembers everything that is why it is so hard for her to forget.
She lay there, alone, like she used to before he came. She didn't want to die but she felt like dying -- waiting felt like dying. When will he come back?
