When a lover dies, at least you know in your gut that they didn't want to leave you. That if they could've, if there'd been more time, they would have fought for you. They did fight for you, until the end. But when a lover leaves of their own accord, one doesn't get that sweet luxury of soft reprieve from the questions. The "what if's", and the "why's", and the "what can I do more ofs". When a lover leaves, they leave because they want to, or have to. But either ways, it's the same. They leave and your heart lies bleeding on the floor wishing, wishing that you were the one that had died instead.