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Description
Out of all the beautiful things, love tells him to chase the broken one. The bear is curled into herself, she freezes on the bed as if bitten by hundreds of different forms of death, all growing and strengthening each other in unison. He holds her paw not out of sympathy, or feeling, but out of curiosity's gently whisperings; they tell him to compare his skin colour to hers - like they do systematically every morning since she started hibernating.

The range has grown smaller.

Before his slowed body can seep relief into his spine and blood, he realises it is because he has grown paler.

He is more than aware her illness isn't contagious (the doctors have insisted on it with their lives), but it takes him down with her, sapping the pink from his cheeks, the straightness from his posture, the energy from his utterances and the saturation from his trembling fingers.

Her death is killing him faster then it is killing her.