“people keep dying,” she said, and he deftly caught her chin just as her face began to fall, cradling her jaw in his hand. she shook her head as though to free herself from oppressive thoughts, heavy as thunderclouds, and he pushed back the curtain of hair covering her eyes. they were almost colorless, as though her steady tears had carried away the sweet shade he’d come to measure against the sky.
“you can’t help that,” he said softly, her tears dampening his palm. “it isn’t yours to fix.”
he waited for her to open wide as sorrow before him, her grief flowing in torrents into his cupped hands. instead, she closed her eyes and held very still.
“there’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will,” she finally whispered, her voice thick as morning fog, her emotions held at bay behind the dam of self-restraint.
he would always remember her this way, curled outside the doorway of a room where death held watch, reciting Shakespeare in a valiant attempt to hold on to what was lost.

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