4.6 | Dark Ages ✓

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HE IS WITHOUT her.

He's standing alone on the bridge. It's the same spot where he'd saved her ten years ago, where he'd spoken to her five years later, where he'd been pushed off from five days ago, and where he'd pushed himself off from five days ago. It is just a bridge. But it now holds a wealth of meaning to him. The past lends value to insignificant things, and because she is his past, everything becomes significant to him.

Everything—everything—means something to him because of her.

Slowly, he turns to head back to the house. Dark clouds loom overhead, and there's the sharp crack of thunder, but he can't bring himself to care. Amidst the rain, he trudges back up the path, and is struck with the knowledge that this too is significant. He'd ran down this path it in a bid to escape the zombies. He'd strolled down it with her as he told her about time-travel, felt the warmth of her body as her shoulder brushed his, and watched the sunlight dance across her face.

Several streets down, he passes the store by the corner and his footsteps slow. He'd met the first zombie here. He'd watched himself meet the first zombie here. He'd met her when this store was still a café, and had watched himself meet her when it was still a café.

And there, along the same street, is the pavement where he'd once been. He'd stood there five years ago, with her shoulder still brushing his, and pointed out the house across the street where they would live in eventually. He'd stood there ten days ago, with her key in his hands, and entered the house right behind him.

His feet come to a halt. He's standing in the middle of the empty road, his gun still clutched within his hands because the Dark Ages are barely over. He looks around, feeling the torn fissures of his heart spread just that bit wider. He'd followed her through this town one night, terrified to find out what her future would hold. And he'd followed her back hours later, knowing what her future was.

This is not just a town, a street or a house, he realizes. This place is you.

All along, he must've subconsciously known that. It must've been the reason he'd never really wanted to leave this place, the reason he'd kept coming back.

By the time he reaches the gate, the drizzle has turned into a downpour and he's soaked to the bones. The rain has cleansed this town. Gone are the bloodstains on the pavement, the lingering dust atop the houses, and the metallic tang in the air. In its place is the fresh scent of rain on a hot afternoon.

How apt, he thinks. For you are like the rain after a hot afternoon, sunlight after a cold winter. You are in me. You cling to my skin, linger on my tongue and seep into my veins.

And I can never forget you.

He pushes the rusty gate open. Across the top of the gate, there are scratch marks made by the zombies that had climbed over the fence barely five days ago. A pair of shoes left on the front porch that aren't his. Namjoon's, probably, since his brother had been here before the final jump. He walks over and nudges the shoes further towards the door so they wouldn't get wet from the rain splattering in. But instead of heading inside, he stops and turns back around.

There, in the front yard, is the rose plant.

The single blooming rose has now wilted, its petals shrivelled, curled in on itself. The rest of the buds are still furled up, unwilling to open even amidst the sun and rain. Slowly, he lowers himself down to sit in a huddle beside the plant. With trembling fingers, he reaches out and catches the frail stem between his fingertips.

What's the use? he thinks numbly. What's the use of holding onto something that's already gone?

He snaps it off. The wilted rose breaks off easily, and he closes his fingers around it, crushing the flower within his fist. A desperate, almost hysterical sob escapes him. Fuck, it hurts. It hurts. It feels as though he's taken his own heart within his hands and crushed it.

Life, however beautiful, is a tragedy.

He pulls his knees to his chest. Resting his chin on top of his arms, he stares blankly down at the plant that remains. She's buried beneath the ground, in this very spot, and it still doesn't seem real.

How can you be gone? he wonders numbly. How can all that's left of you be dust when you're everywhere? I can still hear your laughter echo in my ears, still smell your scent on my skin, still taste you on my tongue. If I close my eyes, there you are.

There, where I can never be with you.

He sits by her grave for what feels like seconds, or an eternity. He doesn't care. Time no longer seems to matter when he's lost the only thing that matters. He doesn't look up, not even at the sound of footsteps. The squelch of shoes on rainwater. A hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He knows, without looking, that Namjoon is there.

He keeps his gaze on her grave and lets out a slow breath. "You knew."

Namjoon sighs heavily, then comes to sit beside him. It's still raining, but his brother doesn't seem to care. "Yes." Namjoon's voice is quiet. "She wasn't here when I came to look for you, and you didn't seem to remember me. I knew that something had happened."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why did you wipe yourself?" Namjoon asks calmly.

Because it hurt, damn it. It hurt knowing that I had her, and lost her, and had her again, and lost her again. And I had to make my other self forget because knowing that he'd killed her would've eventually killed him, and he wouldn't have saved the world like she wanted him to.

The words blur in his mind like a torrent, but they never leave his mouth. That dull ache in his chest intensifies to a searing pain that rips through him. Something snaps within him. That which has kept him focused on his time-travels, focused on saving his other self—all that vanishes in an instant. In its place is cold, wretched emptiness—the kind that will always remain, no matter how much time has passed.

"She's gone," is all he can say at last. "She's gone."

Namjoon's fingers tighten around his shoulder. "I know." There's a catch in his voice, as if he's trying to rein his own emotions under control. "I'm sorry, Taehyung. I'm sorry you lost her."

He hugs his knees to his chest and gasps for air that won't come. He's shaking, not from the cold, but from how much her leaving has left him cold. His shoulders wrack with sobs as hot tears cloud his vision. They streak down his cheeks, mingling with the raindrops on his face.

He can't tell one from the other.