There's a calm to the sun weaving through the gaps of the clouded sky. Leaves crunch beneath her feet. Her fingers are tightly intertwined with Sebastian's. Her head rests on his shoulder. She laughs at something he says—it doesn't matter what he said anymore. All that matters is she remembers the moment so precisely, so absolutely. He leans down, presses a kiss to her forehead, and points to the kids throwing leaves in the air and giggling as they fall to the ground. We're going to have that one day, he whispers to her. She nods and grins, believing every word being carried away by the wind.
Now there's a stench of booze in the air. Forgotten is the crisp wind, the laughter, and the swirling hues of yellow and orange. If she thinks too hard, perhaps it had all been in vain. It's the unruly curse of hindsight, but, for now, she doesn't dwell. "Seb?" she calls. She couldn't manage much more than his name, eyes trained on his limp body. It's not a foreign sight. Much like autumn, the moment is captured precisely. Torn shirt. Ragged breaths. Closed eyes. Bile stuck to his mouth.
He groans from the couch; it's become a familiar sound. At first, she cried. She'd put him to bed, slip outside, and bare her heart to the stars. How poetic. She sighs now. "I'm going to get you cleaned up, okay?"
"Don't, babe. Just want you." He reaches his hands out for her, and she melts, because it feels like old times—just her and her Seb. Old her would put her hand in his and squeal as he pulls her down. Old her would press kisses to his neck. Old her would remind him just how much she loves him, leaving sweet-nothings against his skin. But she doesn't.
She bends down and runs a hand through his hair. "It's okay. I'm going to clean you up and come back, okay?"
"You're too good to me, Sab," he whispers to her. "Way too good to me."
"Seb, don't."
He grumbles again, sinking his fists into the couch to raise himself up. "I'm serious, Sab. You shouldn't have to keep seeing me like this." Suddenly, he places his hand against her face. It smells; she doesn't say anything. It's like that for a moment. They stare. She waits. "Why are you here?" This question—it's funny. It's not that bad, she used to say. He goes to work. He comes home. He's safe. He's fine. And yet she watched as he fell deeper and deeper in love. There was no stopping it. No magical words. No. It was her, and him, and a little bottle. "You shouldn't be."
"Mahal na mahal kita [I love you so much], you understand?"
"That's enough?" There it is—a single tear. "Always?"
"For now."
"Sab," he pleads.
She says nothing for a moment, circling the room as if seeing it for the first time. A pool of his vomit lies beneath them with chunks of this morning's breakfast—eggs and sausage—tucked in. A painting—her favourite, The Death of Marat—hangs above their reading nook where books are lazily thrown, papers fluttering now and again. Plants decorate the room with their desperate lust for life. The television sits blank and unused. And Sebastian is sweaty and helpless and hopeless. "That's a long time, Seb," she finally says.
He falls against her shoulder, sobbing. "I'm sorry."
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