He gets worse and worse every day, so why am I here and not there?
Uncertainty is the worse, and I wonder if I should go back to Boston this year.
Syllables stick to my tongue like cotton balls, and thoughts rot in my head because each one feels more maudlin than the next.
He’s falling apart slowly and he looks so sad when he tries to smile.
Sorry. I’ve been kind of stuck in my own head these days.
sorry, i’ve been ignoring most people if that makes you feel better.
I wanted more seconds in a day.
I know that doesn’t sound like much, but it’s very significant for us. This could be a turning point.
"I know," I replied. And it is, but you see— I wish you didn’t have to go home. This house feels metaphorically damp, and all of the walls are made of cardboard.
I said while she frowned at me in her office. They’ve been getting along and smiling— Man they haven’t smiled in years. She shook her head, and we cried for the next twenty minutes. Well, I cried and she looked at me with teary eyes.
I held him tightly and exhaled. I counted much more slowly once I hit 25, and my breath caught at 30. This is it. The credits should roll and our song should play softly while we move on. Perhaps if the director wanted to inspire hope in the romantics, he’d include a quick scene of us sitting two tables away at a cafe/bookstore 20 years later. It’d end just before we recognize each other, because anything more would beg for a new story entirely, but sadly funding for a sequel will never come through. A diehard fan will popularize a zoomed in screen shot of our hands, revealing blurry gold bands on our ring fingers. The caption will read, “they moved on, and so should we,” and that will be the end.