The breath fell out of her chest like a strange and perfect gush of wind. The baricade, her teeth and lips, parted and the relief washed over her legs and arms.
“Don’t forget me,” is what the breath was used for. But somehow, the boy’s aura shone a different light than her’s. It wasn’t that he didn’t care or that he wanted to forget her. These things just happen. He didn’t say anything aloud. “Well? Tell me you won’t.”
“I can’t tell you I won’t.” His feathers rustled as the wind grazed them. It filled the silence that the girl let swell. It swelled and swelled. “I should go,” he whispered. His feet found the ground, but her eyes didn’t move from the snowcapped mountains. However, she let out another breath—it sounded like singing.
Memories started pouring out of her ears, out of her nostrils, out the corners of her eyes. She screamed, “No! Please, God, no! I can’t lose them! It’s all I have! He’s all I have.”