𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈 : 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐝

At some point in most lives, anyone with half a heart fears the loss of someone important.

You imagine the coldness they leave behind; the tears you shed at their wake; the sleepless nights you spent thinking only of them. However, no one realizes how much worse the realities of Loss are when juxtaposed with its imaginations. The words left unsaid and the ones you wished you never said in the first place; the once pleasant memories tinged forever with the gray, lifeless shades of grief, along with the ones you never had the chance to paint with them in the first place; the weeks, months, or years wasted where all your cravings for special treats were replaced with desires to see only them—to taste the sweetness their presence one last time.

But the worst part is how Forgetfulness walks side-by-side with Loss. The sound of their voice moments after waking; the color of their cheeks after stepping outside in winter's lowest valley; the feeling of their fingers after spending the whole afternoon swimming in summer's highest peak. All of which distort more each day with time's indifferent influence.

Both unfortunately and fortunately for you, Death was a close companion. You sensed her pain well before anyone departed to that great plane of beaming lights and cold air.

So, as Eren sat atop Voltaire, massaging his tender ribs, your heart cried out in silent agony. Although he was alive and mostly well, the image of Eren with a bullet hole leaking from the skull never left your imagination. The reality of losing him cemented itself in your soul. Should there ever come a day when you could not place the specific color of his emerald green eyes or hear his sweet voice's boyish charm, it would also spell an end for you. The price of his death in exchange for your safety was far too high; the emotional debt Eren would pass on to his mourners would bankrupt so many hearts.

There were things you wanted to say: that you were sorry for putting Eren in this predicament; that you would handle this matter all on your own; that soon you would both enjoy rainy days again as though nothing ever iced the waters of your lives. But what could you ever say to make amends? Words would not heal the bruises on his chest or wipe the dirt clean from his jaw.

So, for a long time, you said nothing.

That chilled pool of stagnant thoughts dried once Jean helped Eren off Voltaire's brawny back. You stood, frozen, fearing Eren's departure as though it would be the last time you would ever see him.

You had things to say. So many things.

"Eren," you whispered before he fled for the safety of his home. "We should talk."

"Talk?" he grunted. "Now you want to talk?"

"I do. Alone. Please."

Eren's shadow twisted toward Jean. Jean's shadow tipped his head, and he mumbled, "I will get something from inside. I will... return soon."

You waited until you couldn't hear the crunching of his heavy feet. The steps gave you time to think of something to say, but each floundering thought felt more stupid than the last.

I'm sorry for nearly getting you killed?

I should have told you my plans before attempting to carry them out?

If you hadn't followed me, this would never have happened?

I'm such a fool; please forgive me?

"Out with it," Eren grumbled. "We don't have all night, you know."

You stuttered, "I... I'm... Are you alright?"

"What do you think? That bastard hits almost as hard as Levi. Mother's sure to ask why I'm nursing my ribs, so that means I'll have a headache tomorrow once the nagging starts."