I watch them. My eyes are slightly narrowed and keen as ever. I do not overlook details. I never have. As each person walks past, my eyes ghost over their body. I take in everything; the tilt of her chin, the way his gloved fingers are curled around his coat, the way her scarf trails behind her, held in the wind of her momentum as she bustles down the crowded, wintry walk.

As I watch them, I wonder if they can even see me at all. I am not what I appear, but how could they ever know that? Humans are so oblivious. We used to be human, once upon a time. That was long ago.

What must we look like, the boy with the crimson eyes? Huddled deeply into an elegant jacket that is far too large. The snow falls upon our silvery hair, melting and melding into the soft mass. I can see our breath in the still air of the day briefly before it floats up and away, carried somewhere unknown. Everything in the day is pale. Everything is still. It is a sleepy day.

We sit on the bench, but only I am watching. My little ward wants nothing more than to play in the snow. He is simple. I will allow it, though not just yet. He has no head for much of anything, but I am introspective to a gloomy degree. Somberly, I reflect, contemplate, and remember all the things in our life that he lacks the capacity for. I subject myself to this until my insides are mangled, twisted, and bleeding. It’s a masochistic habit. I’ve never been able to free myself of it.

A soft sigh plays from my chilled lips, and I look again at the never-ending parade of strangers moving past me. Snow is sticking to my eyelashes.

What have these people seen? Not what I have, of course, but can they even imagine? How many of them have lost a chance at love like I have? Was it because they were too frightened to say anything? It takes courage to confront love. Were they too scared of rejection?

Is it because of some else? A previous obligation that forever prevents them from completely loving anyone else? Oh yes. I understand that. It’s a pitiful thing to be selfless.

Are they happy? Are they heartbroken, like I fear I have become?

As observant as I am, I cannot answer these things. I cannot know.

I feel him, inside of him. He’s growing restless. He wants to play, and he’s upset that I’m not letting him. Sighing, I concede.

It’s an immediate sensation. I find myself drowning within us. It’s such a strange awareness, and I can’t describe it at all. Will I ever get used to it? I don’t think I care anymore. Drowning, suffocating. It’s all pain, and pain is forever branded as my closest acquaintance, regardless of whether or not I desire it.

He’s giggling, running and tumbling through the fluffy tufts of white with a sense of carelessness that only a child can possess. He’s completely unaware of anything outside of his own bliss. He’s completely unaware of me.

For a fleeting moment, I hate him.

It’s not fair.