The ripple of his fine brown hair, the contours of his defined cheek saved me from the gaping black hole that had grown in my chest from the tears of my eyes. The blue veins that had once shackled me to wretched life now pulsed the melody of rebirth, the song of love that made my heart beat frantically. He saved me.

But so piqued by our fateful meeting on a stormy afternoon under a yellow umbrella was I that I could not see the destructive turmoil he had brewing inside. So caught in the gentleness of his hands on my soaked sleeves, of his lips against my wet cheek was I that I could not see the dark thorny thicket that he was trapped in. I could not save him.

The dying ember of his dark eyes should have warned me from the moment we met. They had called out to me, to save them from the abyss of sorrow, but I had not responded. Now I feel that our meeting in that park three years ago had introduced me to death. He had been death, cloaked in love- an antiquated, crumbling love, that deceived me into believing he was perfectly fine all along. 

The perfect facade that he dripped with endearment as we lay beside each other in bed and feathered with compliments as we strolled by the sinking reflection of the evening sun in the summer lake had masked his empty, sinking soul. He had long been dropped in a chasm that I had not been able to recognize. 

I should have known that there was something amiss when he first whispered a hushed "I love you" into my ear- the smell of cigarettes on his breath. The hoarse sincerity of his voice had wrapped onto my sweater, and had brought me home- introduced me to a place of tender promises. But the sadness of his eyes spoke different words. They had not only said, "I love you," but also "Don't forget me." 

Why? I had wondered. How could I ever forget? 

But before I could have asked him the questions that ran through my mind, he had gently hushed me with a comforting arm around my shoulders, and before long, my head was placed in the crook of his shoulder. Home. But he also remained sitting pensively, the burning cigarettes on his lips- a distant look in his empty eyes. 

I wanted to take his hands in mine and drag him into my warm, beating heart- that he had brought back to life. Who else had saved me from my own dark chasm? But always, whenever I brought up the topic of his morose state, he would take my hands in his and drag me outside, claiming to show me the world. He would force me to eat ice cream, every flavor- as he sat smoking. I hated the smell of smoke. 

But that was the smell I woke up to every morning, with his long arms wrapped around my bare shoulders, and that smell clinging on to everything. From the sheets, to our scattered clothes on the ground, to even my long hair. I actually loved that smell because, well, it was his smell. 

And as we both laid in bed, the bedsheets wrapping around our bodies- he would trace endless circles along my scarred wrists. 

"Why did you do this to yourself?"

"I hated myself."

"Do you still hate yourself?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because you love me."

Every time we had that conversation, it would go exactly the same way. And every time- he would give me a triumphant smirk, because he knew that he had been my savior. 

And every time that I brought up the scars along his wrists, he would shrug my hand away- smashing his lips with mine, making me delirious and forgetful. He was like a drug- a scarred, broken drug that refused to be healed. 

But that was the routine we followed, almost daily- with him avoiding my questioning advances and dragging me along to places so he could smoke and so I could "see the world." He would sit and have this reminscent look in his eyes- a look of joy and pure happiness as he sat looking at me. Kris Wu had introduced me to life. He was life. 

And even when he had slipped the wedding ring onto my finger, sealing our eternal unspoken promise- he did not have that bright fire I saw in the mirror, in myself. He was still empty. Even though his lips vowed his love, his eyes betrayed him. I will never know if he truly loved me, but I am certain that I was in love. 

My heart would beat frantically around him as if in perpetual shock. The butterflies fluttered, danced crazily in my stomach as his scent intoxicated me. I was a hopeless case, completely ill with the disease called love.

And every time he had kissed my ugly wrists, he would murmur compliments of "You're beautiful" and "You're perfect." He would dry my hair for me after showers and feed me dinner when I wasn't hungry. He showed me love. He was love.

At least to me. 

However, I could not stop the evil demons that whispered to him late at night, that made him bolt up frantically in his sleep- covered in sweat. I could not prevent him from sitting alone before he showered, disdainfully ridiculing his perfect face. I could not make him love himself as much as I loved him. I could not make him forget that old love of his- that woman who had apparently looked exactly like me. I could not complete him. 

So in the end, he had become like a beautiful, hollow white shell on the sandy beach. Empty.

I saw a storm coming, a terrible foreboding feeling welling up within the pit of my stomach as the days passed. He hugged me too often, our kisses were always frantic and rushed- as if we were running out of time, as if he was running out of time. Kris began to write me letters, long essays to short poems detailing everything about him, from his dislike of sweetened coffee to his love for turtles. He chronicled everything, penning down the stories that he loved to tell me- as if to make sure he wouldn't be forgotten, to etch into my memory that he had indeed existed. 

He confessed to me that he hated himself because he did not, could not, completely love me for the person I was. The ghost of his former lover still chased him- still called out to him. He told me that all the places he had taken me- they were all places that he and she had frequented. 

I looked too much like her. 

He had laid his wrists flat on the table, saying that every cut had been an attempt to join her. 

And I should have screamed and cried and left. But I didn't. I couldn't. I was in too deep. So I simply stated that it was perfectly fine with me- assured him that my heart wasn't breaking all over again. Because I loved him too much, because all that I wanted was for him to be happy- for him to meet happiness again. 

And when I finally found his cold, lifeless body below the balcony with the wide open window, I was not surprised. Even though he had not said a single farewell, except for the goodbye in his eyes as he hugged me to sleep the night before. Even though he had mercilessly taken my heart with him.

He had long been dead internally- he was now just linking his physical state to his mental one. And so even as I caressed his broken fingers and cracked lip, as the tears trailed down my cheeks onto his bloodied hair, I did not mourn. Even as I traced the outline of his scratched cheeks, kissed his eyelids shut- I did not cry out. Because he must have been happier elsewhere- reunited with that lover from long ago. I guess only she was able to bring him joy.

Even at his death, he still introduced me to something. Regret. 

Regret that I had met him.

Regret that I had fallen in love with him.

Regret that I could not have a family with him.

Regret that I could not grow old with him.

Regret that he had probably never loved me as much as her. 

Regret that he had been a man of introductions.