Once upon a time, grief had been only a memory to her. Grief, it's such a mysterious element to the world. How one day you feel so far away from it, then by the next day it has entirely enveloped you. It's your world, then it isn't. She would always remember the first encounter of grief that she had ever experienced. It set the precedent for her future; of what to expect. The slack jaw that lasts a perfect ten seconds. The hands flying to cover her mouth because she wasn't sure if she was going to scream, laugh, or vomit. The way her lungs felt as if they had been set aflame with an acid accelerant. Every breath and blink would hurt. Every second passing would just grow harder as the weights hit the ground and continued to fall on top of her. She had once heard that grief is much like stubbing your toe in reverse. When you're struck with pain, it fades but it hurts. When you're struck with grief, it's painless at first but then it grows. The pressure on her chest grew heavier as her brain processed the information given to her. Such a painful experience.

Well, her first encounter with grief wasn't exactly the worst of it. More like a preview of what was to come. The sprinkle of water before the clouds couldn't hold the weight of the rain anymore. She was eight years old, ever so curious about the world and everything around her. On the edge of Hawkins, her parents owned a few acres of land. Unabashed curiosity had sent her trailing out into the clearing behind the lines of trees out back of her house. Spring was in full form that day. Somehow, her memory served the image of the yellow dandelions to be much more saturated in color than how she would see them now. The sunlight had flared in her eyes as she continued through the uncut grass, determined to discover a land that would feed her young and impressionable imagination. The color of the bluebells peppered through the vast land of yellows and greens. Instead of finding some secret Atlantis as she had expected, she had instead found a new friend.

The tiniest mewls and meows came from a few feet in front of her in the clearing. As she parted the grass, she found a grey cat lying on a patch of flowers. Her long brunette hair had dropped down and covered her vision as she leaned down to pick the creature up. Her mother would be furious for getting grass stains on her brand new white stockings, but she didn't care. The cat had looked up at that eight-year-old Joyce with a matching curiosity of hers. He didn't recoil or show any fear, just a look that told Joyce that he wanted to go on an adventure with her.

She had managed to carry the little grey cat all the way back to her house. Begrudgingly, her parents had allowed her to keep him. She had kept her end of the deal, feeding him and cleaning his litter box every day. He sat on the edge of her bed every night, watching over her before he purred himself to sleep. She read to him from all of her favorite books and he sat and listened with all of the patience in the world. She loved that cat more than she loved life itself. He kept her company in her lonely world.

Until she awoke one day to find out that Winston was not lying on her bed as he usually would. She had thrown the covers off of herself, turning every item in the hallway over as she called out to him. She could distinctly remember that day to be the day when the cloud of grief had begun growing over her head. As soon as her feet hit the landing, she saw her parents waiting for her in the living room. As soon as they told her that Winston had fallen asleep and never woke up, her lip quivered in a way that she had never recalled recognizing. The kids at school had picked on her for crying over a pet, but for the first time, Joyce had crossed paths with the heartache of the world.

But losing Winston would pale in comparison to the day her closest aunt had passed. Two years had passed and she hadn't experienced any other losses, but she had already been acquainted with the feelings of grief. That was when the cloud above her head had truly made its presence undeniable to her. It followed her everywhere, turning the color of the world into shades of grey. She had recognized the feeling of her lungs sinking into her stomach and her knees going weak. She was meeting death once again, alongside its best friend known as grief. For a week, she had fallen asleep to her eyes spinning around with the ceiling fan. The house was quiet, her room was quiet, the world was just so quiet. Out of everything she felt, the one emotion that had stuck out to her most was the pure amazement of grief. It was like meeting an old friend all over again. How could that be? How could she remember everything she had felt two years previously all over again? The chapped lips from forcibly breathing through her mouth since her sinuses were swollen shut from crying. The stickiness beneath her bottom eyelashes from the dried tears. The complete lack of energy and will to live for a few days.

But it was Will whose experience had completely reincarnated the cloud of grief over her head. The long and drawn out days where she wondered if her baby was dead or alive. Almost 30 years later, she still knew grief. They were still the best of friends. Sliding right back into their old ways together as if no time at all had passed. Every ounce of grief from the past had remained alive and well inside of her, all it had done was stay quiet. Grief is a universal language; one that doesn't need to be relearned after a long period without it. It's human nature; you just know.

Sometimes, when the nights were long and un-ending, she thought of all the questions she would ask grief if she could. Why her? Or better yet, how did grief know her better than she knew herself? Where inside of her were these feelings living, dwelling, waiting to come alive again? How could it be possible that thirty years later, grief hadn't changed? It hadn't adapted or evolved. It was still just the same as it always had been. Slack jaw, heart stop, voice fails, tears fall, defiances cried, pain grows. Nothing had changed. The roses would hit the top of the casket and her heart would continue to break.

Then there was Bob. Anger had remained the strongest phase of grief that time around. It was Bob's death that had taught her about the stages of grief— and how they weren't really stages at all. They were points of time, bouncing back and forth to one another, all moving in unspecific directions. One moment was anger, the next was sadness, shock, and back again. The swollen eyes had felt just as familiar as they had eleven months previous. Once again, proving her belief that grief never actually goes away. The cloud got heavier, following her further. She could drive for miles and never be able to outrun it. As much as she hated death, it continued to fascinate her throughout the years. The universe had left her raw and wounded, leaving her to fear everything new and out of the ordinary. When the universe leaves you vulnerable, the trust you had placed in it leaves. Nothing is safe. Nothing is off-limits. Just like that, the safety blanket is gone.

Hopper's story would always be different. She grieved so hard that she was close to certain that her ribcage would be ready to bust. The cloud of grief had become a fully formed hurricane. It hurt to breathe, to cry, to move and think and blink and everything else. To physically force herself to move her limbs and clean the remnants of his cabin only a few days after saying what she thought was her final goodbye to him. Bob's death had made her angry, but Hopper's had changed her. Anger couldn't describe it. As If every grief-related emotion had just burst into a supernova and left her feeling only numb. She was held prisoner by her own emotions, shackled into the body that forced her to get out of bed every morning and to just keep going. Each time she had laid her head to rest in a bout of insomnia, her prayers had always circled around to the prayer that the cloud would leave. That the tears would dry and grief would only be a memory for the rest of her time.

But now the dead man was in front of her, and for reasons unbeknownst to her, she was still grieving. She was still mourning his loss and he wasn't even gone. Grief is fascinating, but it's oh so tricky. Just because it's unnecessary for it to stick around, it never leaves that easily. Like a leech, it found other parts of life to attach itself too. Rather than grieving him, she grieved their lost time. She grieved for his pain. She was fucking exhausted from grieving.

The idea of death had always terrified her. The thought of missing someone and not being able to reach out for them, it made her gut twist and turn into unbreakable knots. Knowing that a million miles traveled wouldn't make a difference, that they were just gone. Just the basic idea of feeling so grief-stricken and not able to do the one thing she could do to fix it, there was no greater hell than that. An eternal pain that just came as the price of a life she didn't ask for.

Yet, here she was. She was the anomaly. The one in a million chance that someone could truly be reunited with someone they've lost, right in the same flesh and blood they believed to have left behind. She was living any mourning persons' dream, so why the fuck hadn't the cloud dissipated? Why was her heart still struggling to pound in her chest? She had everything she had ever wanted right now, there had to be a reason why it wasn't good enough. She wasn't looking into the eyes of a ghost, so where was the relief? Where was the breath exhaled that she hadn't realized she had been holding for three years? 

Their once in-sync partnership had now become just two strangers on different wavelengths. 

The headlights illuminated the white shingles on the house as she pulled the car into the driveway. The sight stirred something strange within her belly. Despite the crippling silence that had usually filled the atmosphere, she truly did feel at home when she saw the familiar front porch. All she could think about was the fact that Hopper didn't have that feeling anymore. She had a home to recognize, he didn't. 

"This is it. Home sweet home," she spoke quietly, shifting the car into park with barely any energy in her body left. Neither of them moved, just watching as the moths fluttered their wings between the lights and the house. Even though her body was physically exhausted, her mind was showing no signs of slowing down for the night. The remainder of the adrenaline still coursed through her veins, just as it had done while she had broken him free from his cell. Maybe the heart palpitations would never stop and she'd be forever stuck between the rush of everything that they had just survived. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, cutting off the sensory overload that ran rampant through her. It was so much easier with Will. As soon as he was back in her arms, the comfort had come rushing back to her. His scent, the sound of his breathing, the soft brown eyes. For the entire time her son had been missing, it felt like years had passed. Once he was home, it was as if no time at all had gone by. 

That's what haunted her so much about Hopper. She could hear his breathing, she could physically see him or reach out and touch him. Yet, she still didn't feel the familiarity of his presence. Everything about him warned her that he was an optical illusion. That all of this was just a figment of her broken imagination. Like a dream. You don't feel pain in dreams. She didn't feel him in real life. It was all just the goddamn reflection of a funhouse mirror. 

She cut the silence by clearing her throat softly. "You uh— you wanna have a drink before settling in?" she offered, carefully pulling the keys out of the ignition. She could see the tiredness in his eyes; how he hadn't bothered to look around and observe the area. If he had, then he probably would've asked her why there was a squad car on the other side of the driveway. 

"Yes," he responded weakly. As soon as the word left his mouth, Joyce practically lept out of the car at full force. She fumbled with her keys as she made it up the porch steps, Hopper following closely behind her. As soon as she had managed to find the right key in the darkness of the night, the front door swung open. Her hand swiped along the wall, still barely able to find the light switch in the dark even after living in that house for years. 

The lights flicked on, revealing the quiet interior of the home that felt as if it hadn't been lived in. She had scrubbed it top to bottom before leaving, making sure it wasn't left a disaster by the kids before it was too late to clean it. It wasn't much, but it was fairly comfortable. At least she hadn't seen a Demogorgon popping out of the wall. There were no scorch marks on the carpets or obviously covered ax holes. It was just... home. 

As a wave of anxiety washed over her, she tried to focus her eyes on the framed photo of her and the kids that hung on the wall. The four of them in the photo, huddled around Joyce with a smile on the day she graduated from the academy. The more time she spent around Hopper, the more she had forgotten just how much older the kids had gotten. El and Will were still just children the last time he had seen them. She couldn't help but fear what his reaction could be when he sees them for the first time. They didn't look like kids anymore. Hell, they were practically almost adults. He had missed out on El growing up, just as he had missed out with Sara. All over again. 

Her eyes squeezed shut as she forced herself to pull it together. "I'll go grab the drinks," she said before she scurried off into the kitchen. Hopper stayed standing in the same spot, staring down at the floorboards as if they had some sort of secret message encoded into them. An answer to the millions of questions he was too tired to ask. For so long, he had only seen the beige concrete walls of his cell. Now, looking around to see the color and decoration of his new home felt like a sin. He didn't want to look. 

Joyce rushed back in holding two cans of his favorite beer. Deep in the back of his mind, something whispered to him that she had remembered on purpose. That it wasn't just a fluke that she had picked up a case off the shelf at the store because the label was appealing, but because she knew he liked that kind. "Do you wanna sit out on the back porch?" she asked cautiously, showing him her bright brown eyes in the light for the first time. 

He stumbled on his thoughts before forcing himself to nod. Everything was so damn confusing and overwhelming, why couldn't he just think? If he still knew anything about the woman in front of him, then he would be right to assume that she was just as nervous and frayed out as he was. 

He followed behind her like a lost puppy as she led them outside. He was quickly becoming reacquainted with the feeling of anxiety. Fearful that if he made the wrong step or said the wrong thing at the wrong time, some sort of punishment might come. His steps were carefully coordinated, almost as if he was trying to make himself smaller to avoid bumping into something or making too much noise. 

The night's breeze was back to blowing against his skin as he shut the porch door behind him. A couple of rocking chairs were sitting on the backside of the wrap around porch, overlooking the land that led to the middle of nowhere. He followed her lead as she sat down in one of the chairs, handing him the cold can of beer. "Where's the dog you were talking about?" he asked, interrupting the sound of chirping cicadas and the croaking of the frogs.   

"Rambo? The neighbors are watching him for me." she punctuated by taking a sip from the can. 

He stared at her in disbelief, nearly laughing as his jaw dropped. "You named your fucking dog 'Rambo'?" 

She giggled quietly from the next chair over, and even though he couldn't see her face in the darkness, he could imagine what her expression was. Her nose was crinkled and her eyebrows were probably lifted as her teeth grazed her bottom lip. He'd lost a lot of memories as time had lagged on, but the image of Joyce laughing had never really left him — as miraculous as that was.

"We call him 'Fatty' too. Or at least the kids do. Usually when he jumps his front paws onto the dinner table to lick off of someone's plate before they can stop him. He acts all big and tough but he's actually a big dopey teddy bear." she smiled, her thumbnails clicking together as she tried to hide her laughter. The dog made her feel safe. She might be a cop who slept with her gun on the nightstand, but having that extra layer of protection made the nights a little easier. The damn thing reminded her so much of Hopper when she had first met him at the pound, she just couldn't deny taking him home forever.

"Any other new surprises I should know about? Did you get a cat too?" he asked, cracking open the top of the can. His eyes started adjusting to the darkness, seeing the outline of the small smile on her face. 

"No, no cats..." she stopped, submitting to the bashful grin that took over her lips. Her eyes dropped to the floor of the porch, inspecting the lines in the wood panels. "I did, however, get my badge." She let the words sit with him for a moment before looking up to see his semi-shocked expression. She waited for the other shoe to drop; a feeling she had become familiar with. The eight million potential ways the conversation could curve into something negative. But he just sat there, raised his brows and nodded. 

"Detective Byers. It did always have a nice ring to it. Congratulations." 

"Thanks," she murmured, tracing her finger along the rim of the beer can. "Didn't start off as a detective though, obviously. I had to work my way up from a beat cop first. Luckily, I caught that promotion a little earlier than I expected to when I noticed a few details in a case that the others missed. The D.A. said they probably wouldn't have nailed the bastard if I hadn't found what they were looking for.  My Captain was nice enough to put in a good word for me with the Brass and I ranked up." a smile was brought to her face as soon as she remembered the memory. Half of the squad was chock full of misogynistic assholes who would spend most of their time debating on whether or not to grab her ass or grab another donut. It took a while, but as soon as they realized that she had become better at her job in a year than they had in ten, they wised up. 

The silence had reabsorbed the air between them, pillars of time and change crashing down to separate them. Wavelengths, those goddamn wavelengths. She could hear him thinking too loudly. Hell, she could probably predict each of the questions running through his head. Mentally prepping himself for the answers, the good, the bad, and the ugly. He was afraid to ask, she could tell. Maybe he was afraid of seeing everything that he'd missed. 

She wanted to wait. To let him regain control of his choices and lead his own way. Some of his questions would eventually answer themselves. It would take time, just like everything did. Time this, time that. Time was going by so quickly. Everything was constantly put on hold, pausing to save the world from certain doom and resuming afterward. The more they had to pause daily life, the quicker the time ran out. Before they would even be able to blink, they'd be sitting in the same rocking chairs at eighty years old, remembering everything they had missed by putting time on hold. 

"Where's El?" he asked with a thick layer of apprehension in his voice. She could hear his self-disdain following the fear of opening a whole new can of worms. He was overwhelmed, scared that he'd hurdle himself into another overwhelming situation before he could get over the last one. 

"She's fine," Joyce rushed to say before eyeing him carefully. "She's been spending a few days at a friend's house. I wasn't sure when we'd get back here so I didn't want to bring the kids home until the morning." Well, it wasn't a total lie. It just wasn't exactly the entire truth. El had been staying with a friend, yes. And the kids weren't home because she knew it would be late when they got back, yes. But deep down, she was scared that everything would happen too fast for him. One day in a prison cell, the next at the dinner table as a family of five. She wanted to protect El and Hopper both, but her gut told her that time needed to be planned carefully. She knew he probably wouldn't understand, and maybe it was selfish of her to keep their daughter from him for a second longer. But she also knew how important it was to take caution with reintegration. That just meant it had to be more painful... for everyone. 

He stayed silent, just like she expected him to. Clearly he wouldn't just begin to pour out his entire heart and soul after what he had been through. She was silly for letting herself hold onto a sliver of hope that said otherwise. He would retain his words, keep his thoughts to himself. She had seen this before, not just with El but with kids at the precinct. Abused children who keep themselves locked up tightly because that was all they had left; themselves. 

Maybe it was wrong of her to view him as a victim. Obviously, he was a victim, but would seeing him as one do him more harm? She reflected back to Owens' words, telling her to allow Hopper to show her what he needed, rather than for her to assume. But it was hard with Hopper. The man was once made of steel, so damn invincible that she was certain he wasn't even human. But he is... at least he was. Now, she didn't know what he was. He was vulnerable as hell even when he tried not to show it. It killed her to sit next to only the shell of the man she used to know the insides and outs of. 

She wanted that man back. He probably did too. 

"I uh... I got you some pajamas and stuff. Some basic clothes and stuff until we can go shopping and get the rest of what you need," she was hovering nervously in the guest room that she had spent hours arranging. The salvaged items from the cabin had been set up in the room as well. Photos of Sara and some of his old blankets. She knew she was probably overthinking all of it. At the core, Hopper didn't need much. He had always been self-sustainable and minimalistic in a way. Yet, as she had set the room up a few weeks before, she had felt the instinct to coddle him. Maybe making him more comfortable would help him readjust — or maybe it would make him feel even more out of sorts. It was Hopper, he wasn't always as predictable as she liked to think he was. 

"Thank you," he nodded, his words forced and breathless. Getting another view of him in the light sent shivers running down her spine. Every five seconds she had to force herself to remember that it was actually him, not just a hauntingly similar ghost. She tried to focus on the parts of him that she still recognized. His eyes still sparkled with the lightest shade of blue she had ever seen. His hair was still taupe, just with a few more greys mixed in. His beard was a little longer than she remembered, but she wouldn't be surprised if he cut half of it off tomorrow. 

Her eyes traveled alongside him as he walked over to a photo on the dresser. Sara, one of the photos she had saved while cleaning the cabin out. She watched his fingers run along the coarse wood frame. Even with his back turned to her, she could sense the slightest tug at his lips as he inspected the photo. "My girl," he whispered almost inaudibly. 

Her eyes clamped shut, forcing away the sudden wave of nausea. So many things she hadn't thought of, like how he hadn't seen a photo of his daughter in three years. Those things hit her the hardest. Every little detail of his old life that he had been deprived of. How the hell did this man survive?

She felt the threat of tears beginning to well in her eyes. Her body was panicking before her mind had time to process what was happening. She only had a few seconds to pull herself together before he would spin around and see her on the verge of breaking. 'Cop mode, Joyce. Cop mode. Don't fucking cry,' she chastised herself internally, using all of her strength to suck it the fuck up and save it for her pillow. 

She was failing.

He gingerly set the photo back down on its surface, turning to give her a soft and thankful smile. "I really appreciate all of this," he said into the quietness. She nodded as she returned the small smile back to him. 

"It's no problem," she breathed, still trying to keep herself composed. "I'll leave you to get changed and settle in," just barely after the words were out, she rushed out of the room and down the hall. With each step of her feet padding against the carpet, she felt herself struggling harder and harder to breathe. 

Within seconds, she was locked in her bedroom with her back to the door as her legs threatened to give out from beneath her. Her eyes repeatedly opened and squeezed shut as she focused on breathing evenly. Without even trying to stop herself, tears had started to spill down her cheeks. She brought her arm over her mouth, biting down on her forearm to stifle the sobs and fast inhales. 

The cold wood of the door soothed the burning of her cheeks as she pressed her face against it. She had at least hoped that the inevitable breakdown would come after he was settled in for the night. Her timing had been miscalculated, and she had pushed herself too far. Hopefully, he would remain oblivious to her emotions and spare her the guilt she would feel if he saw how this affected her. Maybe the fact that he seemed completely numb was a good thing. He'd be too distracted with the lack of feeling anything to notice her feeling everything. She didn't want him to see her fall apart. 

She had gone so long without falling apart like this. 

She would never want to blame him for her sudden onset of emotions. He knew her as her emotional self — which wasn't her at all anymore. He may recognize her this way, but it wasn't how she recognized herself anymore. Having him around, seeing him alive and breathing, it just stirred everything up. The surface where the dust had settled was pulled out from beneath her, leaving the cloud of ashes to drown her lungs out. 

As she tried to fight the tears with more strength, she simultaneously fought the urge to fall to her knees. For her back to so easily slide down the door and lay her down on the floor; keeping her grounded. She wanted to feel grounded again, but he needed her to be up in the air with him. He needed her to survive so she could lead the way for him. She may not have experienced his side of the battle, but she was the closest person who knew how to get through the turmoil. 

Joyce was good at surviving; it was just what she did. Nobody actually saw what comes along with that. the way she would need to force herself out of bed every single morning and do menial tasks just to keep fucking going. The universe had branded her as a survivor at birth, laying out her path in front of her while knowing the obstacles she would need to overcome. That was the only life she had ever known. Now, it was Hopper's turn. 

He was a survivor too, no doubt. How the hell he was still kicking was beyond her. But each time, the magnitude of what he needed to survive grew stronger. Her kids relied on her to survive, but she had never been in a situation where Hopper had relied on her to survive. Not like this. 

He needed her. That scared her. 

She laid with her face pressed against the door until the tears had ceased and her breathing evened out. The emotions dulled and the blissful numbness had found its way back to her, filling her up from head to toe. She focused on the rising and falling of her chest, the sound of her breaths reverberating in her ears. The coarse material of her sweater sleeve was rubbed harshly against her eyes, cleaning up any evidence that she had momentarily lost her composure. 

Slowly, the place that held her emotions was replaced with her training. Detachment, survival mode, empty thoughts. She pushed herself off of the door, stumbling over to her dresser to pull out a pair of pajamas. Her entire body ached from the week's worth of running and dodging and fighting. Although she wanted to believe that she would finally be getting a good night's sleep, she knew it was probably too good to be true. Instead of instant relaxation knowing that Hopper was home safely, she would spend the night worrying herself to death over him. That was just a given; a piece of her personality that the academy hadn't been able to rid her of. The old Joyce would always be in her somewhere, lingering until the right moment came along. 

She slipped into the red flannel bottoms and her favorite Illinois P.D. t-shirt. Her grown out hair was tied up into a careless ponytail, auburn strands falling to frame her face. Her eyelids burned as she fought to keep them open long enough to make sure that Hopper was settling in alright. Would he sleep okay? Would he fight off nightmares all throughout the night? Would he even sleep at all? 

She was preparing herself for the same reaction she had seen in victims. Her new home was bigger. Missing lawn gnomes were the last of the police's concerns where she was now. She had dealt hands-on with people who had been through horrible things, seen horrible things. She had lived it alongside them — which meant that she knew what was to come with Hopper. It would be ignorant to expect everything to slide so easily back into sync. He would still suffer, he would still have trauma to deal with. As much as she wanted to, Joyce knew that she couldn't just make it go away. She had to prepare, to expect everything and nothing. 

Quietly, she tip-toed out of her room and listened near Hopper's door. There wasn't much movement from the other side of the wall. Just as she had raised her hand to knock on the door, she had stopped herself. That could startle him; she didn't want that. "Hey, Hop?" she asked, her voice starting quietly to keep from alarming him. "You okay in there?"

A beat passed without a response. Just as she was ready to call for him again, the handle twisted and the door slowly opened. "I'm okay," he answered, his voice softer than she had ever heard it before. Even in his calm demeanor, she could still see the fear that lived behind his eyes. 

"Okay," she whispered, nodding as her eyes shifted to the floor. "Can I get you anything? A glass of water or a snack or something?" she asked, her eyes coming back up to meet his. 

He flashed her a forced smile, one that she realized hadn't quite reached his eyes. The forced smiles never do. "I'm all set..." he replied. She could hear the hesitation in his voice. He was working up the courage to say something else, she could feel it in her bones. Slowly, the sincerity of his smile started to climb, shedding itself of the obvious look of forcefulness. "Thank you... for everything." 

Even with the gratefulness in his voice, she swore she could see him fighting back tears. She wanted to believe that they were happy tears, but that was far out of reach, even for her. She carefully smiled back at him, ignoring the cracking of her heart when she saw through his failing façade. He was in pain. He wasn't a shell of a man whose soul had been scooped out; he was still in there, hurting. 

It was coming, the great big crack where he would fall and break just the same as she had caught herself doing in the next room over. He was strong, but not that strong. Not strong enough to ward off the pain from the amount of trauma he had survived. He would crumble, eventually, and eventually didn't seem too far away. How much could a man of his caliber take? Maybe more than the average person, but he was still human. Humans always had breaking points, and the world had done a pretty good job of nearly pushing him over the edge. 

His eyes had become glassy. The same clear shimmering reflection she had seen that night on the platform, his way of saying goodbye. The soft smile, the one he hated showing but knew how deeply she would feel it. He was grateful, but he was hurting. Hopper had never been a man with great communication skills, so his eyes did most of the talking. At least, that's how she remembered him.

Standing in the doorway, she saw a new shade of him. He wasn't near death, he wasn't surviving doomsday and preparing his goodbye. He was just existing, but existing in the same amount of pain he had on July 4th. Conveying emotions that he only showed during times of great peril, but conveying them in a moment of peace. He was allowing himself to be vulnerable in a moment that wasn't going to end in certain tragedy. A moment where he would need to face the next one and the next one after that, no running away from the fact that he was showing true colors. No escape route, no sacrifice. He was never the type of man who would allow himself to show emotions he would later be confronted with. It was always the last-minute flash of vulnerability with no time to face it afterward. 

But this time, he was using his eyes to speak where words would fail. 

"You don't wanna be alone, do you?" she asked, leaning her head against the wooden door frame as she bit at her lower lip. 

Before she knew it, his glassy eyes transformed into full-blown tears, the dam breaking and the emotions flowing through him at such a speed she had never witnessed before. Instantly, he caved forward and his head landed against her shoulder. While he gripped her through his wordless sobs, she clutched him tighter to her body, stroking the back of his neck as she hushed him in calming whispers. 

"I'm right here,"