As the deadly infection spreads, enveloping the world in suffocating despair, you are forced to endure the new horrific reality alone. An unexpected encounter with an enigmatic stranger changes everything. Your first meeting with him almost ended in...
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A/N: this is a looong chapter, but since it's the last one, I didn't want to split it into two parts. enjoy!!!
Simon isn't scared of dying. He has always seen it as a natural part of the life cycle, as constant as the changing of the seasons and as certain as the setting sun. It's an inevitability that he, like every other person, will have to confront sooner or later. The idea of squandering precious time and energy worrying about something from which there is no escape has always seemed utterly pointless to him. But now that the Grim Reaper's cold, skeletal hand was rapping on the door, he found himself, much to his surprise, being swept up by relentless and towering waves of terror that ebbed and flowed but never fully receded. Yet, it's not the fear of his own demise that disturbs him—he doesn't give a damn about himself. His anxiety is rooted in a concern for you. The two of you have just met not so long ago, and the thought of losing you fills him with immense dread. He isn't ready to let you go yet.
For the past several days, Simon hasn't engaged in any of his usual activities. Mostly, he shadows you, his gaze tracing your every move with the piercing scrutiny of an eagle. You, on the other hand, strive to maintain a facade of normalcy, a mask of composure and contentment, as if to reassure him that everything is fine. But Simon has an uncanny knack for perceiving the truth. He is adept at picking up on the subtlest of cues, the faintest hints of lies, and interpreting them accurately. His ability to read between the lines is unparalleled, and it doesn't take him long to realise when you're attempting to fool him. Thus, you stop trying to put up a brave face, realising that it's nearly impossible to hide anything from Simon.
Every night ends with you collapsed in his arms, tears cascading down your face like a relentless waterfall. Simon stays with you, holding you tight until you drift off into a fitful sleep. He strokes your back gently, and twirls strands of your hair between his fingers, while his voice, soft as a lullaby, whispers sweet nothings into your ear in a futile attempt to erase the bitter taste of another dreadful day. His efforts to distract you, though temporary, have some effect. Moments of peace, however, are fleeting. As soon as your gaze falls on the bandaged wound on his arm, the harsh reality pulls you back in, swallowing you whole and making you feel as if you're drowning. Simon, realising the sight of his wound makes you sob each time you see it, starts wearing long-sleeved shirts all the time.
Each dawn is a mirror image of the one before, as indistinguishable as two drops of morning dew. You and Simon sleep in until the late afternoon, neither of you having the energy or will to face the day. Most of your time is spent tangled in the crumpled sheets, talking about anything and everything. You delve into discussions about your lives before the world broke apart, offering glimpses into your pasts. He shares stories about his life before the streets were overrun by the biters, about his friends and his time in the military. In return, you tell him about your carefree childhood and how you had meticulously planned your future.
At first, these conversations provide a welcome respite. They allow you both to escape momentarily from the grim reality waiting beyond the walls of your house. But as the day turns into night, and the conversations continue under the soft glow of the candles, you are both painfully reminded of all you have lost and everything you are about to lose.
