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A solemn knock on an old wooden door, followed by a soft whisper. “I’m coming in.”
Clarence lifted his head towards the muffled sound. It barely registered to his weak hearing, but he made sure to strain himself to hear when she’d come for her daily visit. He felt sleepy. He has been for a long time. Whenever sleep tried to drag him to rest, he shook himself awake, determined to keep his eyes open. Not yet, he pleaded. There was still more to do.
The door opened with a click, the rusty hinges scraped against worn metal. He saw the tray of food emerge first, followed by his darling who bestowed him with her eternally beautiful smile. She had always looked ethereal to him, but when she remained unchanged by the seasons that passed, Clarence found himself wondering if she was just a hallucination—a guardian angel only he could see.
He breathed her name with what little energy he had left.
“Clarence,” the little painter replied, looking at him with so much tenderness that Clarence wanted to fight off his doziness even harder.
The young girl placed the tray of warm food on the bedside table she had set beforehand, making sure to arrange everything the way she always did. Once she was done, she took her seat on a chair beside the bed Clarence rested on, and started placing food on the spoon she prepared.
“I made porridge for you today. It’s been awfully cold lately and I want you to keep warm.”
Her voice sounded soft to Clarence’s ears, but the little painter had to strain herself to speak. She had to raise her voice without sounding angry—a skill she acquired when Clarence’s health started declining. It was impressive how he kept his health in shape at his age. However, everything was destined to come to an end, and mortals will always be at the mercy of the passage of time.
Clarence didn’t make conversation as the little painter fed him the warm bowl of porridge she prepared. He could barely make out the flavors anymore, but he still found traces of his favorites. It tickled his throat—warmth spreading from his mouth to his chest, from his chest to his fingers. He felt like he was being enveloped in a strong hug, a show of affection he sorely missed being able to give.
He gratefully finished the entire bowl as usual. The little painter smiled as she set aside the food tray and carefully wiped Clarence’s mouth with a handkerchief. She dabbed at the corners of his lips and gently wiped his chin, all while Clarence stared at her focused gaze blessed with a miraculous youth that his younger self never had only witnessed in science fiction novels.
Before the little painter could pull her hand away, Clarence spoke against the cloth that lingered by his lips, “you haven’t aged a day.”
The little painter laughed as if she hadn’t heard him mention her otherworldly youth everyday. It was fun to behold at first, until the consequences of immortality made themselves known by the daily tragedies she witnessed. She was left behind in a world that constantly changed and punished those who wouldn’t be able to keep up. She watched people she knew all her life crumble before her very eyes. Clarence did his best to hold on for as long as he could, outliving most of the people of their generation, until all he could do was wake up and celebrate it as a miracle.
He managed to breathe out another sentence, his clouded eyes not leaving the little painter’s figure for one second. “And you’re as beautiful as the day I first saw you.”
The little painter laughed again. There he was, always trying to comfort her. She wondered if he still saw her as that little squirrel that he couldn’t help but be so endeared with, always reaching a hand even if he knew she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
“Look at you, a silver fox in the flesh.” The little painter replied, a playful grin on her face. “I’m pretty jealous of how good you look with gray hair.”
It was Clarence’s turn to laugh, but no sound came out. His eyes were crinkled behind his spectacles and the wrinkles on his face made it seem like he was thoroughly delighted, his mouth was upturned, and that was enough of a sign the little painter needed to know that he liked her little tease.
Once Clarence had caught his breath, he slowly patted the empty space on his bed, inviting the little painter to sit near him. The little painter obliged, taking her rightful place next to her beloved. Now that she was facing him, he found it easy to reach his arm out to hold his darling’s cheek as he always did.
His hand was clammy, but there was still a semblance of warmth on them. The little painter allowed his touch and smiled, a gift reserved only for him. When it didn’t seem like he had something to say, the little painter decided to break the silence herself.
“It’s funny that you mentioned the day we first met… I was lost, looking for where the orientation was for the new art students. Then you let me paint you in return for helping you put up those posters.”
She watched Clarence’s expressions carefully, making sure that he could follow everything she could say. She wouldn't want him to feel sad over not being able to hear her or understand her words.
She tried talking a little louder. “You’ve always been so helpful.”
Clarence nodded, understanding. The little painter felt relieved. Before she could continue reminiscing and talking about everything and nothing, Clarence’s expression turned serious. She felt her breath hitch in her throat.
“You love me… right?” Clarence had always spoken resolutely. This was one of the few times the little painter heard him waver.
The sudden question surprised the little painter greatly.
“I do.” She gently placed a reassuring hand on the one that held her cheek. “What’s on your mind?”
“I was thinking of the other me… The Archmage,” Clarence spoke slowly. He was being considerate of his words, but he also seemed to have much trouble speaking. It took him plenty of energy to talk, and this was already more than what he spoke daily.
The little painter felt her heart leap into her throat. This was sudden. Archmage Clarence had never left her mind ever since they separated, but it had been years before she heard his name being spoken into existence. She could never forget about him—her unrelenting efforts to reach him had led to her current state of immortality, and that was something she couldn’t bring herself to hide from the Clarence before her right now.
Similarly, the image of Archmage Clarence was seared into Clarence’s brain. The shock that came with discovering his other self already meant that he would never be able to forget about him, but the additional factor of the girl he loved making it her life’s mission to save him made their own relationship a little complicated.
Did she love him? Did she love him for who he was, or for who he looked like? For who he reminded her of? Did she love him for who he could have been? For who he could be? Did their love become a paradox where she loved a him that wasn’t him ?
Clarence took a deep breath. He felt like this would be the last chance for him to ask this question once more. He brought it up when the little painter first accepted his confession at their old college campus, and he wanted to ask it again before the curtain finally fell on him. He had asked this question twice in his life, and both felt like the most selfish thoughts that had ever plagued his mind.
“Did you stay by my side because of him?” he asked not to accuse, but to find the truth.
Clarence tried to pull back his arm, but the little painter held on to his wrist and kept his hand by her cheek. There was a similarly serious expression on her face. She felt guilt well up in her chest. How could she ever let Clarence even consider this possibility? She loathed herself for never noticing, for falling short in reassuring him.
“It’s true that I found myself drawn to you because of The Archmage, but I learned how to love you on the way. How you chastise me when I forget to eat, how you make detailed plans whenever we go on dates because you don’t want to waste a single second, how your eyes crinkle behind your glasses when you smile widely… I loved every single part of you, Clarence.”
Clarence’s blue eyes were not as vibrant as they were in his youth, but the little painter still saw them sparkle in the light. They gleamed and twinkled the way the eyes of wise wizards would in stories she and Clarence read together on slow Sunday mornings. While she gazed into them, a smile found its way onto her lips.
“I love every part of you,” she corrected. “I love you, Clarence. I meant it every time I told you so. I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel otherwise.”
Clarence wanted to apologize. How could he ever doubt his beloved? He didn’t feel like himself; his words were not his own, his thoughts felt foreign to him. The curse of old age came with a perpetually growing cloud in his brain, creating an ever growing fog he could barely see through. I’m sorry , he wanted to say, I don’t know what came over me. He opened his mouth only for his throat to betray him and refuse a single sound to leave his lips. His arm lost what little strength it had as it went limp in his partner’s hand.
The little painter immediately sensed something was amiss. She gently lowered Clarence’s arm and placed it at his side. She turned in her seat and reached for a plastic cup of water that rested on the bedside table. Carefully, she tilted the cup towards Clarence’s mouth, the refreshing flow of water soothing his dry throat.
When half of the cup was empty, Clarence slightly shook his head. The little painter retracted the cup and waited.
“I don’t think I ever doubted you even once. I trust you with everything I have,” Clarence’s words had a renewed vigor to them. Still, he spoke slowly and breathed in between his pauses.
It was as if the energy Clarence expended for talking was just as great as the energy he once burned as an accomplished lawyer. It was ironic, he believed, to struggle with words on his comfortable deathbed when he never stuttered once in the fierce courtroom. It was easier to fight for others rather than himself—he wondered if that was shaping up to be one of his regrets.
Clarence felt his heart ache. He reached out to hold the little painter’s hand and squeezed it with all the effort his bony, wrinkled hands could muster. Her hand was warm and full of life. Clarence wished he could see her live even after he leaves.
“Sometimes, I worry that I love you more than I love myself,” Clarence’s words were but a whisper, as if he was saying a secret that the universe could never hear.
The little painter shook her head. “If you trust me as much as you said, then trust me when I say that I don’t think that’s the case.”
Clarence nodded. He had more to say, but he knew too well that he was running on borrowed time. He stared at the little painter, wondering if she’d be able to parse the message in his gaze. When his beloved caught his eye, she nodded in turn and smiled. She hoped he could carry the memory, the comfort of her smile, to wherever he went once he closed his eyes one last time.
“All of it was real. I know I told you that I’m waiting for someone, but that doesn’t make the life we spent together null or ingenuine.”
The little painter’s cheeks were flushed with a youthful glow, a healthy blush settling on her skin, “You’re one of the highlights of my life. That’s a truth that won’t change with the seasons.”
Clarence forced himself to speak. He swore he could feel nails scraping against the soft skin in his mouth. He tried to sit up, only to have his upper body refuse him the pleasure of doing so. The little painter gently chastised him, reminding him of his limitations and how he should take care of himself more.
The tables have truly turned now, Clarence thought. It felt like only yesterday when he was the one stating reminders and giving lectures about her health. When he saw her puffed cheeks, he was reminded that she was still the cute little squirrel he loved—just a little more grown. A little more mature. He didn’t feel too bad about leaving her anymore. He knew she’d be okay.
“I’m sorry if it felt like I was doubting you… It’s difficult to think clearly at my age. I know you’d never hurt me,” Clarence said with much effort. His thoughts were getting more scattered by the minute. He took deep breaths and focused all his energy on listening to his favorite sound in the world. The little painter’s voice gave him the same happiness as hearing wind chimes twinkling in the summer—a sign of happy days coming.
“Clarence, we’re around the same age,” the little painter dryly laughed. Her vigor betrayed her words. Before the smile on her lips could reach her eyes, her face turned serious once more.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t grow old together with you.” Her bright, yet mournful eyes traced the details of Clarence’s face. Time was kinder to him than most, but watching the person you love slowly deteriorate before your eyes was something she never got used to.
“You gave me so much and I couldn’t even give you that.”
Clarence shook his head with what little energy he had left. He opened his mouth to try speaking once more. It was so painful to make even a single sound, but he needed to do this. He didn’t know if he still had a tomorrow.
“All of this was for me in the end, wasn’t it?”
The little painter couldn’t find it in her heart to answer. She leaned forward to make sure Clarence could see her properly, then she nodded her head.
Clarence’s eyesight had deteriorated to almost nothing, but he still saw the sparkle of gems before the glasses perched on his face. He knew his beloved was about to cry. He couldn’t reach out to wipe her tears anymore, so he squeezed her hand once more.
“How lucky I am… to be loved by you in different lives,” he whispered. “On your journey, when you find me again, will you love me the same?”
The little painter nodded. Her breath fanned Clarence’s cheeks. They kept him warm and reminded him of life.
“As long as it’s you, I’ll love you the same with my whole heart, and I’ll even love you differently depending on how you need it. If you need someone to fight alongside you, I’ll make sure to train extra hard to not burden you. If you need someone to hold your hand while you walk, I’ll make sure to keep one hand reserved for you at all times.”
The little painter quickly said her promises like they were wedding vows.
Clarence laid his heart down as if this was his final confessional.
“You make such grand promises…” —the little painter felt her heart stop in her chest until Clarence spoke once more— “but I know you’ll always find a way to keep them.”
A strained smile grew on the little painter’s lips. There was a familiar sense of foreboding in the air. She didn’t like it. She wanted to stop it.
“What is it with us and being so sad today? We should talk about happier things now.” It was starting to spill from her lips—her borrowed grief from the future. She didn’t want to say goodbye. She didn’t want this to be the last memory Clarence would have of her, and she didn’t want this to be the last memory she’d have of the Clarence of this world. Her world. Her Clarence. She wanted to cry for both the death that loomed over his bed and the remnants of fragile life that flickered before her eyes.
Clarence didn’t react to her words for a while. He stared at nothing in particular, and it struck fear into the little painter’s heart.
“It makes me happy to think that you won’t be alone when I’m gone,” he finally said with difficulty, as if he was fighting his own lungs to reserve air for speaking rather than breathing. He was still fighting. Did he want to keep fighting?
“Don’t say things like that. You’re still here, aren’t you?”
Clarence smiled. He stared at her silently, his cloudy blue eyes flickering with life. It seemed as if he was memorizing every detail of her eternally youthful face with his failing sight. Her flushed cheeks, her shining eyes, her bright smile that lit up even the most desolate of rooms. Those blue eyes persisted, until he was gently filled with a light feeling—sleep tempted him once more, and he knew that it was time to go.
Clarence smiled, as if he was saying thank you. As if he was saying goodbye . I love you.
Then the soft light in his eyes faded away, leaving but a snuffed wick where life used to be.
The little painter’s strained smile immediately faded. She looked at Clarence’s face for a sign, anything that would tell her that it was all just a farce. Her face felt like it was burning—the tears that immediately fell on her cheeks set her skin on fire as they flowed.
“You’re… still here, aren’t you?” No response. She whispered, “aren’t you?”
When silence dawned once more, the little painter felt a surge of emotions emerge from her chest. Anger. Grief. Betrayal. Sadness. Grief. Guilt. Relief. Grief. Grief. Grief. The hand that rested on top of hers had grown limp. Soon, it would resemble flimsy plastic more than human flesh, and that would be the last memory she’d have of the strong hands that never failed to wipe her tears away.
Was it greedy for her to think that she could have everything she wanted? Was this grief her divine punishment for being unable to let go of those who have long sacrificed themselves? She knew that there was still a Clarence out there that needed her, but at least he was still out there in the stars waiting for her. The Clarence that held her hand for all these years was forever gone, and she could never hope to bring him back.
She didn’t get to tell him that she loved him enough. She didn’t get the chance to fawn over him as much as he deserved. She wanted more time—she needed more time. She wasted her worthless years not realizing that even if time had stopped for her, there was one last person in the world who tried to pause his own watch for her.
He loved her with everything he had, for everything she was—her baggage and angst, her conviction and her duty. She knew no one, not even his counterparts, would ever be able to love her the same exact way as he did.
“I’ve lost you twice now, Clarence. How cruel of a man do you have to be to break my heart like this?”
Her voice painfully cracked, it scratched her throat to speak. She sobbed all of the tears she held in her heart. The tears that welled in the corner of her eyes when she realized there was nay a silver hair on her head, the tears that pricked her skin when the world changed and left her behind, the tears that realized she’d have to say goodbye once more to the person she loved the most.
Clarence left her a to-do list by his bedside table under his daily medication, a list of things to do once he had left the world. He knew she’d be rifled with grief at his passing, so he took the opportunity to help her one last time. First, call an ambulance. Second, handle the death certificate. Third, schedule the burial. The coffin was ordered ahead of time, the plot of land he was to be buried in was under the Clayden name, and there was a small list of family members that could be invited for the final rites.
Before the little painter left his side to accomplish what she needed to do, she leaned forward and gently brushed Clarence’s hair away from his forehead. She placed a gentle kiss on his skin, feeling the last of his warmth before it forever faded away. She lingered against him, wanting to be with him until the last traces of life completely left.
Until then, in the last private moment they had together, her lips solely belonged to him—her love solely belonged to him.