I took a first look at her and I knew I couldn’t tell her how she looked like for fear that I might describe my appearance instead, which in itself, is beyond recognition. My mouth fell and my eyes were wide, I couldn’t believe how she was able to lay there almost dead, yet full of breath. I tried hard to keep the shadow of my tears from falling; she can not (should not) see the weakness in me when I see her ravaged and damaged by reality. Fear itself, they say, should not be feared, but if it’s alive and ready, will we be secure enough not to fall when it attacks? Its power is in its wings, and to make it fall means to crack your bones to even begin to reach. So I just sat there and held her hand. There was not much I could do. But they were so cold that I felt my veins and the blood in my body freeze, stopping my breaths for a minute or two. I was afraid, and felt stupid that I felt afraid. But it was a moment of realization; a figure of that somebody began to mean more than just the colors on her hair. Unexpectedly, she took my ability and my power, almost instantly. Remarkably.
When she finally opened her eyes to look at me, I saw the view of what she had to go through. It’s dark and gritty, and fluid can’t help but trickle down her soft body. She broke and she turned around, unable to even speak. Clouds hovered over her, and the nature of the room changed its course on its own. I sat still, not knowing what to do. Her face lit up and she managed to smile when she saw me. I was not sure what I was able to conjure, what type of magic or spell I said to see that ray come through. But it was there, and I knew, while he had broken her loudly, piece by piece, and I can hear the depth of the darkness that she was in, her flat pulse and the complex beating of her heart, instead of me promising her the echo of my footsteps, she was reaching over me and promising me hers. Right then and there, she had become my weakness.