I held Emma’s hand, oh so tightly it could break. I sniffed her hair that smelled like scented candles, the ones she used so she could fall asleep at night. I looked at her face, almost like I was memorizing every contour of her visage. Her eyes were stuck on mine, and I felt not an inch of awkwardness. She had brown eyes, like most people have, yet they were still different. She saw through my vision, my senses. I saw my reflection in her cornea; I heard my voice coming out of her throat. I was tempted to kiss her, and I did. I kissed her lips, pressing my mouth into hers. I tasted my own saliva, the taste of garlic from the breakfast I had and the taste of bitterness from my lack of talk. I held her hand tighter. I watched Emma died, as I saw myself died too.