And I can’t move away. 

He’s only six years old. No one should die when they’re only six years old. And worse yet, he knows. 

It becomes so quiet sometimes, and there is nothing you can do, but sit there and feel it, the sound is so loud, the sound of your own pain overpowering, like an air-raid siren, but no one does anything, because there’s nothing they can do. You know you’ve done what you can, but there is always the lovely nagging little fear that you didn’t do as much as you possibly could. You haven’t died yet, there was something else you could have done. They weren’t important enough for you to try or go mad trying to save them. They weren’t important enough for you to risk your life, or even your emotional comfort. But you know it’s a lie. 

I’m a coward. I’ve known for a while. The first time I invested myself, and then I learnt to see the signs. The past few times I’ve backed away in time. In time to be mostly out of reach when it happened. This time I’m pretending it’s not going to happen. I know it will. My logic screams “Inevitable!” “Inevitable!” And I know. But I don’t want to run away this time. He’s innocent. He’s our baby. He will always be. 

God it hurts. 

It’s odd how I always think that. God. Whenever I’m in pain. God. God. God. It’s odd because my faith always vanishes when someone I love dies. Barely even a trace of it now. A ghost. 

I love you, little wolf. I always will. 

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