He called for her to wait. She didn't listen. She was angry at him, and disgraced at herself at times like these to see the diamond ring on her left hand.

Suddenly before them was a figure in black, his face not visible. He stared at the woman for a moment, then in one swift movement, pulled the trigger on the gun he was carrying.

There was enough time from when the bullet escaped the gun to see his heart break right in front of her, and for it to be the last thing she saw.

The shooter ran into the dark night, and he didn't care that he got away. He wanted—no, needed—to be with her in her dying moments.

She let out an ear-piercing howl as the bullet ripped through her and she collapsed to the ground, the concrete bruising her delicate body.

Blood poured from where the bullet had made contact, ruby red. He tried to look at her, but she was slipping further and further away from the living world with each millisecond that passed.

She summoned the only remaining strength she had—thus reducing her life by several seconds and allowing more blood to spurt from her gunshot wound—and squeezed his hand.

He squeezed right back, absorbing everything about her: her eyes, her hair, her skin, her smell, every little detail, every little freckle, each tiny scar.

Something deep inside of him told him that somehow, if he squeezed hard enough, she wouldn't leave this world, but a wave of fear washed over him when he could no longer feel her squeezing.

He gripped her shoulders begging, praying for her to awaken, but she never did. She stayed there, limp and lifeless, while he kneeled at her side, sobbing into her chest that he could no longer watch rise and fall as she breathed. He didn't care that her blood was all over him, he wouldn't leave her for anything.

His rough fingers brushed her lips, asking for a smile, but he knew he could not have one from her. His hand travelled down her face, stroking her cheek with his knuckles, and to her chest, where a pendant on a chain lay fastened around her neck. He held it, loving its warmth as her body was already room temperature.

He considered calling police, but he really couldn't bear to have her taken from him and stuffed in a freezer, only to be later ripped apart in an autopsy. He wasn't ready for that. He promised himself he only needed ten minutes, but he stayed there until sunrise, barely moving as he cried for her. Her body grew colder and colder, and the pendant, encased in his hand, grew only warmer. As the near-darkness cast large shadows over the pair, he studied her face, still perfect apart from a bruise to the left eye.

He watched from afar as the police pulled her into a body bag and drove off into the August morning. In his right hand he still held her pendant. A tear escaped his eyes as he watched his fiancé leave him for the second time that night—except this time she was never coming back.