A/N Wow, I've been gone for a while, huh? Well, I'm back, with new chapters and new stories, several of which will probably come today. Look for 'em. :)

This was actually an assignment for school at first, all we had to do was write a creative piece between 500 and 1000 words that was appropriate for people our age. I had no good ideas, so I decided to start this story for a fanfiction, and then one of my other teachers read it, and said I could probably turn it in for a grade, so I did. Yay for killing two birds with one stone!

I decided to try writing this style, and I'm not sure that I'm too good at it, but it was really fun. Enjoy!

She is swimming beneath his closed eyelids, a blur in the darkness, always walking away from him. She's been there, in his head, for as long as he can remember, and he can't remember much these days. With all of them gone, she's the one shred of his humanity that he has left (he doesn't count the boy with blue hair, he's just like him, he never counted).

He's thought about her so long that, while he can still see her, she isn't clear at all (tall or short? chubby or thin? dark or pale?). He can't remember her eye color (was it blue? green? brown?). He can't recall her hair (long? short? black? red?). She had a name, a pretty name, but he doesn't know what it is anymore (Clarissa? Maia? Shelia?). Which one is she?

He doesn't know, he doesn't know, and it's killing him to think that maybe he can't think anymore.

She used to touch him and send signals straight to his brain, electricity that shocked him even when all she did was brush her fingers against his arm. Her fingers were long and lovely (but were they an artist's hands? or a warrior's?) There was a ring on one of them (left hand or right?), that bound her to someone (her brother or her lover?), and maybe if he could just see that ring, it would send him back to whatever reality she is in (is she reality? or is she just a dream?).

He wonders for a moment if she really did love him, whoever she was (of course she did). There was always that question mark, a lingering wonder, if maybe she stayed too long until it was too late, and she, his angel, fell down with the rest of them, while he stayed young and beautiful and perfect and all those other nice words she used to call him. He knows that if she could see him now, some of the words she would use might not be as pretty as those.

He is lying on the floor and staring up at the ceiling, tracing patterns in the slick surface that might look like she did (but the image changes every time he starts it over again). The thin glass over his eyes obscures his vision, making it hard to watch for so long without getting dizzy, so he closes his eyes again, and suddenly, he sees her, just as vivid and lovely and delicate and strong as she was when she was just eighteen, just as she was when she died (but did she die at 18? or is his faulty memory just playing tricks on him?)

He gasps in surprise, not daring to open his eyes for a second, fearing that if he does so, if he rips apart the picture, it will never come back, and that is something he can't handle. He can see her, really see her so clearly, and he wants so badly to weep with joy. More than that, he wants to take her in his arms again and hold her, just hold her, and never let her go again. Her long, thick black hair, her deep, mischievous charcoal eyes, her creamy white skin. That ring on her hand, her fighter's hand, it was the one he gave her, a long silver band (she always preferred silver jewelry) set with one tiny, sapphire colored stone (the exact same color as her brother's eyes, she'd said) in the middle of it.

She steps back from him for one moment, and whispers how sorry she is, for being away so very long. He can't speak, he can't breathe, and though he is itching to run to her, he lets her have her space, knowing that, like a cat, the more you want to love her the more she wants to get away. She tells him how much she loves him, her songbird's voice breaking his already shattered heart into a million more tiny pieces to scatter around the barren wasteland of his soul. Finally, he can't take it anymore.

She reaches for him at the exact same moment that he reaches for her, and for that moment, she is finally, finally in his arms, her face nuzzled into his neck just the way it used to be. For that moment she is his again, all his, all beauty and fire and passion, and all Isabelle, just the way he knows her to be, exactly the way he remembers her. He wants this moment to last forever. He never wants to let her go. He never wants to forget again. She is so real here that he believes with all the tiny pieces of his heart that if he takes this chance, if he opens his eyes now, she'll be there in front of him, just like she is in this perfect dream.

But when he does open his eyes, the illusion shatters. She is gone again, and all he can remember of her is the taste of her lips on his for one last kiss, and the image of her back retreating as the ghost of his life walks away from him once and for all.

The patterns he traces on the ceiling with his eyes are ordinary things now, birds and hearts and rings set with a sapphire stone (doesn't that color look like something else?). There is a thought nagging at the back of his brain (but he doesn't remember what it was). All he can feel now is the cold, dull ache in his chest where he thinks his heart might have been a while ago, even if he is certain that he doesn't have one of those anymore. He knows that she (the girl who his not-quite-conscious mind registers as Isabelle, even while his thoughts don't know who she is) took it with her wherever she went to. She gets to keep it forever, and he knows he can't ever have it back.

Did you like it? Here's the explaination: The guy whose point of view it's in is Simon. It's maybe a hundred years or so after Isabelle's death, and he's still grieving, even though he can hardly remember her. Yeah... kind of weird, but I'm writing a second chapter that goes along with it.

Review please? Thanks!