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Grief
Willow was angry when he refused to hand over his diary or even to read aloud accounts of the days she and Xander wished to relive. They found comfort in memory, in recitation, and so he steeled himself to listen, but it was like drinking lye.
To him it was as if, in falling, she tore backwards through their lives, warping what was not destroyed, leaving shadows and ominous silences in scenes that had been full of sunshine. He was half-certain that in the ivory pages, as in his memory, he would find every instance of her name burnt out.
Willow was angry when he refused to hand over his diary or even to read aloud accounts of the days she and Xander wished to relive. They found comfort in memory, in recitation, and so he steeled himself to listen, but it was like drinking lye.
To him it was as if, in falling, she tore backwards through their lives, warping what was not destroyed, leaving shadows and ominous silences in scenes that had been full of sunshine. He was half-certain that in the ivory pages, as in his memory, he would find every instance of her name burnt out.
