I love you, but you're not mine.

White and Black

      In a field of flowers, there was a battle. Between two people. One was wearing white armor while the other wore black. There were no swords. No physical attacks. Just attacks consisting of words.
      The one in black screamed at the one in white, the flowers around them decaying slowly, and the decaying spread towards the one in white. This battle went on for ages, so long the two thought they were old by now.
      It went from screaming to throwing kicks and punches, and it went from that to swords. For a while, White was winning, the flowers blooming again after so long.
      But White wasn't prepared. Not enough. Black seemed to grow bigger, their strength building up and pushing White to the cold ground as the life around them decayed. It became colder and colder, colder than Winter. Winter was a good friend of White. White began to cry, knowing Winter was never there to help.
      The battle became harder for White and easier for Black. Black continuously added to this strength, added volume to their yelling, added more decay to the decaying. Everything was turning to ashes. Dust. Nothing. White felt like that.
      White knew they couldn't hold their ground much longer. Yet, it did not bother them. What were they protecting anyways? White stopped the fight, placed down their sword, and grew a beautiful white rose within their palms, and held it up to Black.
      "I give up," White muttered. "I don't know what I'm protecting anymore." Black stared down at White, and took the rose. The rose decayed in Black's palm as they set down their own sword.
      "I'll make it easier." Said Black. Black walked forward, placing their forehead against White's. "I'm sorry."
      "As am I." White whispered, their figure decaying, and blowing away into the cold air.