Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember all the times I was by your side? Why can’t you be at mine now? Why can’t you just be here for one more night? I still can hear your voice in your writing, I can still feel every emotion you poured into the words. I see it flitting across the page like a ghost. God, how I miss seeing you write.
I remember one night I woke up and you were hunched over your desk, your computer brightness turned down as far it could be. You had gotten an idea while falling asleep and needed to write it out before it escaped that head of yours. I pretended to stay asleep so you wouldn’t think you disturbed me, but in that moment, everything was perfect. I could hear the faint sound of music as you hummed along to whatever played in your earbuds. You tapped your foot along with the beat. Outside, it was pouring rain and the wind was howling, but here, there was nothing but ease.
When you got stuck, you leaned your chin on your knuckles and bit the inside of your cheek. You stared at the page, reading over the words you put down again and again. Then something sparked and your eyes lit up. God, you were so happy. You continued to write for hours, only pausing when you needed to flex your fingers. I fell in and out of sleep, listening to the sound of the keys clicking, but every time I woke up again, I was reminded of just how perfect you are.
I think back to a lot of those times now, when you’d write for hours. Sometimes, you’d just stare at a blank screen like the words would show up for you. You even told me you wished the story would just write, but it never did. Other times, I couldn’t even get you to get a drink of water. You would be so focused on finishing ‘just one more paragraph’, which always led to another one, and another one.
When something didn’t follow along the outline you so clearly had in your head, you explained that sometimes characters just write themselves. Sometimes, their lives unfold on their own and you’re just their guide.
I remember the day you finished your first novel. You typed the final sentence and just stopped. Then laughed. You were so happy it was done. We went out to dinner, said cheers to your muses. We went dancing. We stuffed our faces with cake. Then we went home and I helped you begin to edit it. Then the day it was published, we did it all again.
Your sequel is still on your computer, waiting for its last chapters to be written. I’ve read it so many times, never changing a thing. You made every sentence sound just right. You put your own life into the characters, so when they died, I felt you die all over again. And when the others grieve, I grieve with them. I see you in all of them. Just fractions, really, but still enough for me to hold them close. They’re almost all I have left of you.
I’ve started writing my own stories. I followed all your advice, I built my own world and characters. I started writing because of you, because I want to finish that sequel and get your work out to everyone who loved you and the world you created. So I practice. I write and I write just like you did. I’ll spend hours crafting everything. I write so I can someday finish the world you left for me. I miss you. God, I miss you.
Your clothes have lost their smell. Your side of the bed always feels colder than it should. I don’t wake up expecting you to be there anymore, but I still miss you. In all our pictures, I see you smiling. I love seeing you smile.
I want to go to dinner again, I want to go dancing and eat dessert with you, I want to scream with you when you see your own story, bound, printed, and released for the world to find. I want to be with you again, but you’re gone.
Did God let you keep your memories of us when you passed? Or did you simply show up in paradise, nothing tying you back to this world? Do you still write up there?
Is God even real? Is He all loving like everyone has told me? Does He have a plan, or does He make us suffer for his own sick amusement? I’m beginning to doubt Him. I’m beginning to doubt my own faith because He took you from me. I prayed every night you would survive, that you would win the war after so many battles… but He still took you from me. He just took you from me. If God is real, He is not kind. He is a thief of lives.
You told me you would live, that everything would be okay. You told me you would like to get married when you got out of the hospital. I kissed you. I didn’t realize I had kissed you good night, and for the last time. I’m not mad that you lied, you couldn’t have known. Or maybe you did, and you just wanted me to feel hopeful when it had been so long.
I didn’t tell you, but I already bought a wedding ring. I was going to propose when you were out of the hospital. When you said you wanted to get married, I thought it was a sign from God, a sign telling me you were going to make it, that you were going to live and we would live happily ever after. I thought all of these battles would be set behind us, and we would be free to live in our perfect, happy world.
I miss you so much. God, I miss you so much.