Falling apart was easy. It was like gravity. Stitching oneself back together, however, was a much more trialling task. He'd succumbed to irregular breaths and empty lungs, and as he dragged his palm across his face, fingers forming hook that swept away the worst of his tears, he tried to piece himself back together again.

One breath — he snatched something from the side of him. He wasn't sure what it was, but it was soft and fabric, and he used it to wipe his face, cleaning up the terrible smear job his hands had caused.

Two breaths — he blinked feverishly, claiming back his vision, fixating on a singular...