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There have always been candles, but now you hate them for their funereal glow. You walk on anyway, and return to the bedroom you have shared your entire lives.
He looks the same despite the weakness; he takes up half the bed, leaving your half empty. It is almost as if he is simply preparing for another night’s rest, but you know these are your last few hours together. His breath is audible, almost wheezing, and you wonder when old age snuck up on the both of you. It hits you that you will spend your last bit of life alone, and those few years suddenly seem like an eternity.
You choke back a sob – your first since he fell ill. His hand reaches for yours and you grasp it. He smiles at you in a soft, knowing way, but you are still angry he gets to go first.
The next morning, he is gone; by sunset, you are on your way to the South Pole, never to return again.