The Things We Leave Behind

Part One

"Would you hold on just a moment?" he calls behind me. I quicken my pace, darting around corners in an attempt to lose him. Just because we'd spent a lifetime or two together didn't mean we had to be attached at the hip, right?

"Please, just listen to what I have to say!" he says. Not a chance. I know exactly what he wants to tell me. Angel, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't mean to hurt you... Bull. Shit.

Finally, I lose him and arrive at a small cafe on Main Street, place my order, and take a seat as far from the windows as possible. As soon as I relax and release the tension from my body, I feel a warm hand grasp my shoulder.

"I don't have time for this." I get up to leave but he just pushes me back into my chair.

"Actually, you do," he says.

I roll my eyes. "I refuse to forgive you this time."

He gives me a sympathetic look. The puppy dog eyes, that's what it is. Melts me every time. But not now, not this time. I think of cold things; ice, snow, ice, snow...

"We're through, John," I spit.

"We can't be through."

"I just said we are."

"What will you do when we're literally the last two people on earth? Ignore me?"

"I guess we'll just have to cross that bridge when we get to it," I say.

"Angel, listen-" Here we go again... It happens every couple of decades. John fucks up, bangs some nameless bimbo, steals a precious artifact that once belonged to him, or, hell, falls in love with a mortal. I'm talking sappy, cliche romance. And then they die and he comes crawling back. Because who else would be there for him but me? He's broken every pact we've ever made at this point. But this was so much worse.

I get up, storm out of the cafe, and make it halfway down the block before the mindless murmur of his footsteps behind me suddenly stops. I turn, look him straight in his sunken, turned-purple-with-time eyes, and sigh.

"I'm dying," he says.

Sometimes we try to remember when this all started. Was it a hundred years ago or two? Perhaps we'd be able to figure it out if we didn't get wine drunk each time we tried. Nevertheless, we'd spent centuries together now. And every few decades we'd wonder why the hell we agreed to this torture. To live forever is a curse. Back in the mid 1900s we even attempted a suicide pact, but alas, rule number one reigns true: immortals cannot die.

In the beginning we found love, lost it, found it again, and lost it again. It took trial and error for us to realize the one thing every human strives for is the one thing we cannot have. This became one of the first rules John routinely broke. He lusted after so many women, got his poor heart broken so many times, I had to put an end to it. Sex was the only exception to this rule. But John, being the hopeless romantic that he is, could rarely keep himself together.

The second rule, that coincidentally goes hand-in-hand with the first, was that we had to move cities every few years, otherwise the locals would catch on to us. This meant no close relationships of any kind, even strictly platonic. So we remained on the move. It was easier that way; we wouldn't get caught and we wouldn't get hurt. Win, win. However, John did not feel quite the same. He would sometimes sneak away to reconnect with past lovers; something he knew better than to do, but once again, couldn't help himself.

The third and final rule was only that we stick together. This was perhaps the hardest one for me to follow. I got sick of John daily. How he'd never cut his hair and how I was always patching up holes in his jeans. How he was always leaving a mess in his wake; dirty dishes, socks, stray hairs. It nearly drove me insane. But, God, I loved him nonetheless. His crooked nose and his stubble. His curls and his messy hairstyles. That's why, when he finally kissed me, I was so damn angry.

"Ha-ha very funny," I snark. The whole point of immortality was that we couldn't die. It became impossible the moment we agreed to it.

"I'm serious," he says. He looks down at his boots and his hair falls in front of his face. It's not a lie this time. He isn't messing with me.

"You can't die, remember? I had that cancer scare, what was it, thirty years ago? I'm still standing!"

"This time is different." His thick eyebrows are furrowed, clearly holding back pain. As a man of many emotions, this isn't unusual. He feels too much most of the time. So easily scared, hurt, so quick to fall in love. Maybe he's just making a mountain out of a molehill.

I walk towards him. His shoulders are magnets to my hands, but I resist. I stop halfway, contemplating my next move. This doesn't erase all he did to me. It does, however, put it on hold for now.

"John, you're being ridiculous. If this is some ploy to get me to let go, it isn't going to-"

"Not everything is about you, Beth. Do you know that?" Ok, he's serious. Too serious. But it really isn't possible. Remember that suicide pact I mentioned earlier? If it was possible to die, that surely would have done the trick.

He pulls back a thick strand of hair to reveal a grey patch. That's when I notice the age spots on the backs of his hands. Our bodies hadn't aged in centuries. Not a single grey hair, fine line, or wrinkle. It had to be a fluke; there was no breaking the spell.

"It started a few weeks ago," he says quietly, almost like he's ashamed. "It's only getting worse." This is crazy. Impossible, even! The one rule I thought he could never break...

We walk back to our apartment in silence. I run through every scenario in my head twice. Once we get through the door we begin going over every move John's made in the past few weeks. If we could find whatever triggered this, maybe we could fix it. Or at least, do it to me, too.

"I'm not going to be floating around in space all by myself a thousand years from now. We're in this together. This isn't going to change that," I say. He puts a cold hand over mine and looks me in the eyes. A silent apology.

"You know I would never choose to leave you, Beth."

"I know."