She had grown blurry, a distorted reflection in an unsettled pond, disturbed by the stone he no longer held. He stared at her but couldn't make her out. Her familiar face now so far from familiarity. What could he say? He didn't have a reason—or he couldn't remember it. What could he say?

He felt words boiling up from his chest and into his throat. He wanted to scream at himself. He wanted to scream into the sky just to prove he could make a sound louder than a choked whisper. To prove that he was in control and that this was real and he would not wake up and have to repeat it all. The boiling air was in his mouth now, and expanding, trying to wrench apart his teeth and force the words out. And then he looked at Emily, who was now so suddenly alone. And he hugged her. He wrapped himself around her like the warmth of the home he would never re-enter. He held her as tightly as he could because he knew it would be the last time he ever would. He hoped never to let go.

A lifetime passed in a moment. The hug broke. He turned, and he was walking home.

At first, he felt nothing. He listened for the quiet twilight sounds of the wind and the leaves falling, but a cold mist had settled over all and the world was muted. And then he felt sick. Really sick. And he crumpled alone under a streetlight and allowed himself to cry.