I was seventy-five when I last saw him.

         I stopped in my tracks when I caught sight of him beneath the willow in the park. He had always been at the home when we met, but there he was, fingertips brushing the bark. I approached with slow steps, already familiar with the automatic cautiousness I had around him.

         He turned to look at me, but there was no surprise in his face.

         “Do you think we're meant for each other?”

         Caught off guard, I stammered stupidly for a moment before I got a hold of myself. “Of course we're meant for each other. We found our way back here, didn't we?”

         Chanyeol smiled tightly. I watched as he ran his index finger down the tree, then picked at it until pieces of bark fell to the grass.

         “Chanyeol, stop.” He snapped off another piece of bark, threw it to the ground. And another. “Chanyeol, please.” I put a hand on his wrist, to which he pulled away.

         “I'm sick of it.” The willow suffered another hit as he curled his fingers into the trunk and tore at it.

         “Chanyeol.”

         He faced me, eyes a storm. “What?” From his labored breaths, I could see how difficult it was just for him to pull bark off a tree.

         “What's going on with you? Did I—Is it something I said?”

         His hands, roughened by the willow, stayed limp at his sides as he looked away from me. “No.”

         “Are you sick of me? Is that what it is?”

         He shook his head in frustration. “I'm sick of... of all of it. Of waking up and thinking it's five days ago or five decades ago, of not remembering you or myself. How are we meant for each other if I don't even know who you are most of the time?”

         I didn't know what to say, what to do to reassure him. Because I couldn't help but see that he was right.

         Chanyeol's voice came out small but with quiet certainty. “I don't think you should come visit anymore.”

         “You can't just run from the problem, Chanyeol. I—”

         “I don't want to see you anymore.”

         I felt my throat catch and my eyes burn, my breaths shallow. “What?”

         “I don't want the last time we meet to end with me forgetting who you are. It's not fair.”

         “But—”

         “I remember you right now. I want you to remember me like this, as if my memory has always been intact.”

         I was only capable of breathing shakily, clenching and unclenching my fists.

         “Please.”

         It's been ten years.

         I take my morning stroll through the park. My bones are aged and weak, but the willow is all I have left of him.

         But today it is dead, chopped down to a stump. Suddenly I feel weaker, numbed from the inside out.

         It is gone.

         Our weeping willow is gone.

         I return home in a daze. My chest burns, and I lie down in hopes that the pain will pass.

         It is gone.

         He is beside me, his skin cool like a breeze.

         It is gone.

         I feel him whisper over me in his end, wind in the willow's leaves as I close my eyes and let him take me.

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Sooo sorry it has taken me so many months only to end it.  Thank you for reading and commenting!