He was addicted.
He returned. Many times, in fact, he returned to see her. To him, she was captivating, even in her state of constant anguish.
She's like a flower, he thought, struggling to bloom even when all light is gone.
He could see how the absence of that glow was affecting her-- it stagnated her growth and vacated her eyes of any spark of cheerfulness. But he understood.
Even though light was a strange concept to him.
Day after day, he saw her future start to lose its shimmering glow. It was disheartening to him, to see even the care of hope abandon her case. Slowly, but surely, her soul began to hollow, reflecting the sallow quality of her lifeless face.
Soon, she would see him.
Yet, he did not want to see her. He wanted her to grasp onto that hope, to hold on, to find happiness. He wanted her to survive; after all, it would all be worth nothing if she bore through so much pain just to see him.
No, she deserved better.
He wanted to help, but he knew that anything he did would simply make it worse. He recognized that someone like him would never be able to aid in the struggling flower's battle.
He hoped, for that was all he could do. Hope: what an empty word it is! He hoped, but what could hope do if it were already leaving her wind-torn petals behind?
What good was hope if it was so eager to throw her away?
In his helpless position, he could do naught but watch.
Watch and hope.
