"The moment the McMurray's vows and rings were exchanged and the uproarious applause died down, Holly saw Simon slip away and run out the back door of the church. His shoes clicked upon the cobbles, and with concern, she followed him outside. She found him sitting upon the stone steps, fiddling with his oxygen tube. As she had grown used to, Holly sat beside him, and without warning, he turned and threw his arms around her. They were slender and cool and they held her tightly to the thin chest that lay just beneath the pressed black fabric of his suit. "Simon!" she cried out in surprise as she held him, too."What's wrong?" He shook his head into her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Holly." "What on earth for?" "I'm sorry I won't live long enough to marry you like that," he murmured. "I'm sorry."
“Oh! Where to begin? Well. Simon Dalaigh is pretentious. He’ll be damned if the world does nothing but revolve around him! After all, he is the sunlight in the darkness that is humanity—whosoever is near him gets to be graced with his presence. Simon Dalaigh is spoiled. He has gotten everything presented to him on a silver platter his whole life, and if he does not immediately get his way, he throws a tantrum like a toddler. Simon Dalaigh is lazy. He never wakes up before eleven-thirty, he expects to be waited on hand and foot, and he consumes more chocolate pudding in a day than a colony of small children could in a week. Simon Dalaigh is dramatic. The smallest inconveniences throw him into the depths of despair and the silliest things can send him reeling with utmost euphoria! He is an arrogant, entitled, impulsive, untrustworthy and melodramatic twat, and the most bizarre thing is that I still adore him, try as I might to do just the opposite! Perhaps he is right in some of his pride, for sometimes I swear that, at times, the sun does indeed shine out of his arse.” —Holly Halliburton
When she returned that morning, Holly found him looking in the mirror which sat in the far corner of their small room, and it took him a moment to even notice her entrance, for he was busy straightening the cuffs of a glossy brown jacket. "Simon, what are you doing? That suit isn't familiar--is it new?" inquired Holly as she set down the groceries upon the table. The young man grinned ruefully at this. "Yes, it's new; went to town and had it fitted the other night while you were asleep; picked it up a couple minutes ago. What do you think?" "It looks quite nice. But what's the occasion? Why would you need a suit?" "Well, I figured it was collateral--you see, the shirt I was to wear in my casket got stained, so I figured I'd get this just in case...you know." He flattened the lapel as he spoke these words, his face both sharp and vulnerable at once. "So. Just shopping for a funeral suit. Perfectly normal behavior. 'Cause you know what they say-" he turned upon his heel and faced her, arms outstretched slightly, "can't spell 'funeral' without 'fun', am I right?"
We sat there for a while more, but when it started to rain we finally disengaged and he lurched to his feet. His legs failed him a few times and I had to help him, putting his arm round my shoulder and pulling him up. “Well,” he gasped when his voice had steadied, “that marks the third time I’ve gotten my nose broken in the last three months.” He managed a weak laugh, though it caused more scarlet to flow down his lip. Cringing, he wiped at the blood with his filthy sleeve. “It’s going to be permanently crooked now, just wait. Shoddy luck I have, huh?” The rain was picking up then, streaming down our faces, and I noticed with alarm that the puddle under his feet was turning red and he was leaning upon me heavily. “Can you walk? Are you hurt badly?” I asked him. Benjamin breathed in, but he cut short and grasped his side. “I think he broke at least three of my ribs. Add my nose and a couple fingers to that list too,” he said through gritted teeth. “Other than that, I think I’m…well enough. Very, very sore, but I’ll be fine. Dandy, even.” “Dandy isn’t the adjective I’d use after I got the daylight beaten out of me, you stupid ass-hat,” I snapped, my overpowering distress finally quelled enough for me to be tetchy again. “Every bit of your body is bruised and you’re standing here, making jokes like it’s nothing! I’d be lying there in the fetal position if that were me!” “That’s because you’re not Superman, remember?” He gave me a crooked smile, then spat out some more blood onto the ground, pulling his arm from my shoulders and steadying himself on his own. “And in case you didn’t know, Sara,” he said, “this isn’t the first time someone’s done this to me. I can deal with this sort of thing. Your tolerance for pain builds up if you’re hurt enough.” -Paper Stars, 277
"They fell in love along the spine of a book, and eventually their breath became letters and their bodies became paragraphs and the dog-eared pages became unmade bed sheets and blankets. They folded and creased around each other until their very own story had been written." —Nobody, Too
Inspired by this heartbreaking post on tumblr--essentially about a girl and a boy who met on an elevator and could have had a wonderful relationship. Except that elevator was in one of the twin towers on September 11, 2001.
"What's it like, Simon?" "What?" "Cystic Fibrosis. Living with that." Simon's mouth twisted to the side a bit as he pondered this. "Well," he said at last, "my lungs are like roots: they give me air, but they keep me down. Even though I'm sick, they keep rattling on, they keep me alive, and the cost..." he gestured to his cannula, to his oxygen tank and his respirator, to his hospital bed and IV tubes, "the cost is my freedom. I'm trapped--just like the tree outside that window, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon." -The Things That Stay