Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It always hurt. It never didn't hurt, if I'm being frank. The pain lingering inside myself wasn't the kind to made into flowery sentences, stretching across the page and cascading down the edges like a waterfall. The words fell flat, aged not to perfection, but to the kind of empty staleness that almost houses sentiment; it's a feeling you don't want to have but are fearful to lose. It stayed inside myself like a parasite whilst making a home within the bones and flesh.

I tried to explain this to my therapist, with light hand gestures and lacking eye-contact. He sat before me with his legs crossed at the ankles and the softness in his cheeks slightly red from the chill outside. I rubbed my arm to generate warmth and to give my hands something to do under scrutiny. This was an interrogation. 

"Could you explain it verbally?" The man asked. "I mean, could you just tell me? Actually saying the words may help you feel better."

"I suppose I could try... I'm afraid it won't do justice."

This piqued his interest. He sat back lightly. "You're afraid you won't be giving yourself enough credit? Care to elaborate?"

I truly did care, but to indulge the man I tried to make my mouth translate the words floating in my mind. As usual, they didn't want to work together with me, and instead left my mouth, a bitter wake behind them. I was never very good at speaking. It was one of the reasons I was sitting where I was. I ran a nervous hand through my hair, absentmindedly rubbing my face.

"I have so much to say, but there are only so many words." I said. "Some words that have yet to be made even. Writing allows me to edit and reshape words, but once I speak them they are out forever, no matter how many people I intend to listen to them. They could form any opinion they want about me and I am powerless to stop them."

"Speaking makes you feel powerless?" He asked. "You feel more powerful with more control, and when you lose the reins in any instance you feel...?"

He wanted me to tell him how I felt. However I was quick to pick up on this and thus looked away from his spectacles. Their roundness and wires reminded me of the ashiness of New York; How the filth clouded your lungs and made you lightheaded with it's wonder and filth. How the loveliest flowers had the nastiest thorns.

"You remind me of a - of a rose, an absolute rose."

I looked at the therapist. "I feel numb."

He nodded, seemingly accepting of the answer. His pen glided across the notebook before him, writing down everything I was telling him and chronicling it all forever. This made me feel a bit queasy. The idea of someone knowing exactly who I was more intimately than even I did took control out of my hands. The panic began to swell inside like a balloon, getting larger and larger the more the fear grew. My feet began to tap to release energy and I picked at my cuff links in a vain attempt to distract my therapist from my undoubtedly blank face. The roaring sound of white static drowned out the calming music pumped into the room and goosebumps erupted on my skin. My breath started to grow rapid and I clicked my teeth together to hide it. This, too, was familiar.

I began to grow fearful. I hadn't wanted to let him know about so much in such a relatively short time. And looking at his face, he saw my mistake and began to hunt it like a predator to it's prey. I felt wounded and I clenched my hands on the armrests of the chair to hold onto anything stable. I didn't look at the man, instead choosing to stand up abruptly and make my slow way to the window. The snow was delicately falling to the ground, reminding me of where I was. This was not East Egg, this was not New York, and this was not my home. I was made aware of this as a slow serpent of chill slid down my spine, softly pressing my fingertips to the frosted glass. The cold bit at me like a small animal, and I allowed it so I could feel anything.

"Nick?"

I let my hand fall, not moving beyond that. I heard the therapist shift behind me.

"Nick? What's wrong?"

I stood for a moment longer before I turned to face him. "I have to go home."

The therapist was about to call me out on my obvious lie, however after he saw the pained look on my face he seemed to feel bad enough for me and allowed me to depart. He penciled me in for a random day at a random time to revisit, to which I halfheartedly agreed to. After that exchange and one lingering look of pity, I was out the cold door and on the way to my car. I shuffled, blinking out snowflakes of my eyes. 

As I drove on, my mind began to re-emerge from it's shell as I focused intently on driving and the road before me. I clenched the steering wheel and looked forward past the snow and other headlights, shining as though welcoming me back to the physical plane. I sighed.

These roads were a sick kind of familiar; not as though I wanted to remember and reminisce on their beauty as I drove by, but like I forced myself to imprint their looks into my brain. I made myself look at them and told myself to remember their shapes and their curves because this was where I was now. The present was far scarier than the future and everyday that fact was proved tenfold.

I arrived at my house, lights out one by one and an empty driveway, just as I left it. Slowly, I unbuckled from my car and exited, carefully using the brass keys to unlock the door.

"You're back early."

I hung up my hat and untied my scarf, placing them both on an empty hook. "Is that a good thing?" 

"You tell me, old sport."

I smiled softly and toed off my shoes, caked with snow. As I looked up, I saw Gatsby standing there.

His face was soft yet tough, as though crafted out of clay by the gods, blessing him with sun-kissed bronzed skin and an eternally young face. He was built well, taller with muscle laid on gracefully. He was wearing a perfectly tailored blue suit, as though any of his suits were anything less, and his shoes shined in the light reflected from a lone lamp I flicked on quickly. Jay noticed my smile and gave me one back, and I tucked it into my back pocket for safe keeping.

"It's fine," I told him as I moved into the kitchen. Jay followed silently. "Nothing extraordinary."

As I moved to the kettle to make some warm tea, Jay was sitting in front of me, elbows on the table and eyes scanning every inch of my face for signs of distress. 

"Of course it's extraordinary, old sport. This is something... new."

I looked back at him, amused. "Are all new things extraordinary by default?"

His smile grew into a grin, and the wound dug a bit deeper. I felt it pulse angrily, mad at me for the situation as it crawled forward. It wasn't a clean wound like a piercing bullet, more like a festering thing that refused to heal. It stayed with me and continued to bleed all over my clothes and soaked every single inch of me with each step I took away, further and further. It never scarred over and always remained open, no matter how many times I attempted to drown it out with various alcohols. 

Gatsby drew me out of my thoughts, as he tended to do frequently, as he replied, "Everything can be extraordinary when you have an open mind. At least, that's what I hear on the grapevine."

I chuckled. "What grapevine are you listening to?"

"Oh, various ones. I like to listen around."

The kettle screeched and I was quick to remove it from the stove, pouring myself a mug full and adding a few bags to it along with a drop of honey. After a few seconds, I deemed it acceptable and took a small sip from it.

"Is it good?" Gatsby asked.

"It'll warm me up, that's good enough."

I turned and sat across from Jay, wrapping my palms around the mug to beat the bitter coldness. He looked over at me again, completely invested in my reactions to the tea and never leaving me. I had grown used to this... habit, and learned to let Gatsby have his, admittedly particular, way. I took another sip.

Jay leaned forward. "Tell me about the appointment, old sport."

I looked at him over the rim, and set the mug down softly as the snow continued to fall outside. "Truly Jay, there wasn't anything special about it. No probing or medication, if that's what you're wondering. We just talked."

His head tilted in confusion, and the wound dug a bit deeper. "What did you discuss?"

"Various topics. Who I am, what I do, how I'm feeling currently. I'm tempted to say dreadfully predictable."

"Did you..." Jay looked away for a split second, then met my eyes again, "did you discuss me, old sport?"

My hands tightened on the mug, warmth licking my palms. I knew Gatsby's angle, had truthfully known from the beginning. He wanted to stick his perfect nose into any business of mine. His tone was one of a shy school boy asking me to be his first girlfriend for prom; very unlike Jay Gatsby of West Egg. But no matter how Jay wanted to twist or deny it, if there was one thing he was not at the end of the day, it was subtle. And he wanted to know the truth, so who was I to deny him what he wanted? After all it was about him, it was all about him, always.

"No Jay. We didn't discuss you."

He deflated back into his seat. I couldn't look at him, choosing to look into the depth of my mug and observe the tea as it swirled it some parts and remained stagnant in others. 

"That's good, old sport," he replied, and I nodded shallowly whilst keeping my eyes off of him. 

When I finally decided to look back up, Jay was gone without a sound, simply there one moment and gone the next. I finished the rest of my tea, and moved to the bathroom to take a shower to warm myself up further. The wound dug a bit deeper.

 It had begun to happen very shortly after he died.

The days following Jay Gatsby's death filled me with a new kind of sorrow, one that overwhelmed me and somehow drained me all at once. I was wounded afterwards, staggering and weakened. The grass beneath my feet felt stiff and the skies above me were heavy, threatening to crash. I began to move against my own wishes, as my feet dragged along the floors of his great estate and lingered in hallways and doorways. I took in all the small details I had previously ignored, such as the intricate sewing designs in the curtains and the great care taken into the gardens behind his house. They seemed to be wilting after his death, suggesting he was the one to water them every morning. With no one to tend to their delicacy, they simply ceased to be. 

I left the estate short there after, refusing to go back inside. That house was truly haunted now; haunted with secrets that I was forced into and haunted with promises that acted as the foundation.

The funeral was a pitiful affair, one that involved me being connected to the phone almost physically and staying by Jay's side spiritually. I grew exhausted frequently, however refused sleep. My clothes got dirty and I grew quite unsanitary, though I still refused to leave Jay, as though as soon as I exited the only person to remember Gatsby would be gone. I took the responsibility seriously, as I took most things.

When Jay's father arrived, the weight on my back lessened but the wound simply grew larger. We both mourned with one another over Jay's body. He told me stories of exactly who James Gatz was, and in turn I told him stories of who Jay Gatsby was. We both stood over his graves as crows, dressed in black and circling his corpse elegantly.

After, we both parted ways, a firm handshake of mutual understanding, and we both left for the rest of our lives. He went back to his house, and I went back to mine. A few days later, I received a letter from Wolfshiem, stating that I was no longer allowed on the formally Gatsby estate, and I had nothing left of me to argue. All his belongings were taken and soon I lived next to tomb.

I made the decision that leaving would be my best option, seeing as I had nothing tying me to the city or East Egg. Daisy and Tom were gone, Jay was gone, the poison infected me and I sought a cure. It didn't take long to pack my belongings, and as soon as I had everything I loaded up my car, escaping the environment and leaving nothing but fragments of myself. However, before I departed forever, I decided to make one stop. 

The graveyard was completely empty and I drove up the steep hill alone. The trees surrounding the premises were beginning to grow skeletal in the approaching fall, leaving only the branches. I focused forward. Eventually I made it to the lot and I walked slowly to his grave. The crunching leaves accompanied me. I arrived to Gatsby's grave, which was bare.

I thought back to the parties he used to have and back to when even murmuring the name "Gatsby" made aristocrats squeal and sparked excitement. The champagne spilled over his head and my laughing at it all. The glitz and glam all to be left to an empty and lonesome grave, one among a sea of grey. No one knew who Jay was here, he was just another number. I had to remember him.

I placed my hand on top of the grave. It was cold.

I tried to think of what to tell him now that I was here. It was a bit overwhelming to be given so much freedom in such a short span of time. Just Jay and I in this entire plot of land, yet an unmeasured amount of distance between us. All of what transpired for me between him and I came rushing back in tidal wave after tidal wave, feet planted in the sand as I took each assault in stride. All the nights of longing and reaching out to my own green light a few yards next to me.

So I started simply, "I'm in love with you." And from there, the words came to me naturally.

I spoke of times when I wanted to reach across a table and hold his hand, or times when it pained me to tell him goodnight. I told him of everything that made me think of him, of things he did that enraged me and of things that he did that made me fall for him more. I told him about how I came to love him and how I wouldn't change it for the world. I told him of who he made me be, who I used to be and who I wanted to be. I told him all of my secrets, in an effort to make up for all the things he told me about himself. I apologized to him and I thanked him, I yelled at him and cursed at him. I made sure he knew just what he was to me; he wasn't my Daisy because he could never be mine, not the way I wanted him to be. I expressed how much it stung that we could never be what I wanted. The world wasn't ready to welcome me and thus I stayed buried beneath the sand. Every brush of his fingertips on my hand, every time I caught him looking at me through his window the flames of desire licked at me. I cut my chest open and let the wound bleed.

After it was all said and done, I sat on the grass before his grave. The dew bit into my trousers and I rubbed my face, hiding it. I felt overwhelmed with how much I spoke, not one to use my voice so frequently. I was uncomfortable speaking such things out loud, finding the urge to instead write them all down letter by letter.

Besides me, I felt movement and yet chose not to acknowledge it. I already knew who it was.

Silence, then, "I'm sorry, old sport."

My hands dropped as I turned to Jay, defeated. "Don't apologize."

He shook his head. "Yes, I have to. I'm sorry for this, I'm sorry that this happened." His face looked pained, beautiful features contorted in a way I had never seen and in a way that didn't fit his handsome face. I quickly decided that I liked Jay least when he was regretful, so I had to remind him of the truth that I knew and that he was ignoring.

"No, you're not." Jay would've traded the happiness of worlds for Daisy, this fact that I was painfully aware of. "Don't apologize if you don't mean it."

Jay turned from observing the grave to look at me, eyes full and heavy with pure emotion. His face was familiar, so warm and close. My heart stopped once again from being the one to receive his full attention like never before. I was lifted off the ground, and for a single second it was just us there. Only the two of us in all of New York, sitting on the frosted grass beside one another. As I grew in this city, the veins of power climbed up my arms and as we sat, I felt it slowly leak out and away from my mourning body. Gatsby leaned in closer, sealing my fate forever.

"I am sorry, Nick."

It was in that moment that I knew that this Jay was mine to keep. He was so close to me and sat in front of his grave, this Jay was giving me what I wanted. He was with me, chose to be next to me, felt things the other Jay could not or would not. We sat together, nothing else on our minds but one another. Words were fruitless and instead we both sat in one another's company, taking in the fall weather and enjoying one another, something I hadn't even allowed myself to entertain the thought of. 

After the sun began to set I stood, alone, and made my way to the car. As I opened the door, Gatsby was already in the passenger's side, and we drove off together.

The therapist welcomed me back a week later, spectacles slightly glistening with cold as I opened the door and let the temperatures in. We shuffled from the door and sat in our respective seats after I removed my coat and scarf, me gladly accepting a mug of tea and him grabbing his notebook and it's pen.

As I sat, I looked past my therapist and saw Jay, staring out the window wistfully. I pried my eyes from him after a moment and let him linger in the background, shadowing the therapist. The man looked up and gave me a soft smile.

"Mr. Carraway! It's nice to have you back."

"It's nice to be back," I replied gently.

The therapist adjusted in his seat. "This cold sure isn't treating us very friendly, is it?"

I shrugged in return, eyes momentarily sliding back to Gatsby, who was waltzing around the room and observing seemingly everything but the therapist and I. In my mind, I begged Jay to look at he and throw the anchor out to me, however he ignored me and was in his own little world like he tended to be.

The man across from me drummed his fingers on the notebook. "How are you doing, Mr. Carraway?"

"I've been fine."

"Fine? As in, no better and no worse?"

"Just fine."

He wrote that down and I looked back to Jay once more. He was stagnant before an old looking clock, one that ticked in time with purpose and was heavy looking with age. The old mahogany shined in soft light and reflected. Jay's hand was out, reaching for the clock as though to touch it.

I thought back to the clock in my old home, one that sat on my mantel the first time Jay and Daisy saw one another. I closed my eyes and heard a whisper, "I'm sorry about the clock." The wound dug a bit deeper and for a moment I fretted about getting blood all over the floors.

I looked back to the therapist and saw him staring at me. "Are you sure you're okay, Mr. Carraway? You look like you've seen--"

"Yes, I'm quite sure." I didn't want to hear the end of that sentence. The therapist quickly scribbled something down in his notebook and I swallowed nervously. "Right," he said, pushing his spectacles up his pudgy nose after he was done writing, "well, tell me about your day so far. I want to hear it all."

We continued back and forth like that for about an hour or so; he would ask me mundane questions and I would give mundane answers. The appointment was horrifically predictable, just like all the other appointments and most likely were a preview for appointments to come. We shared looks as though it were a game of chicken. He wanted to dig deeper and I wanted to keep him out for as long as possible, so eventually one of us had to give and I no intention of losing any time soon. I had lost before and was determined to lie, cheat, and steal in order to remain where I was with the people I had. The therapist was foolish to think I would remain unchanged after all that happened, and the honest man Nick Carraway was buried back in New York on a grassy knoll under frosted greenery.

As we spoke, I felt Gatsby's eyes on me, pressing me to the chair. I ignored this to the best of my ability.

Once the appointment was done and over with I picked up my coat and scarf, making my way to the exit. Before I could leave, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Ice ran through my veins for a single second before I closed my eyes and allowed myself to think straight.

"Nick?" The therapist asked quietly. I stopped moving, however did not turn around. I shuffled a bit to dislodge the man's hand at my discomfort, which he obliged. "Nick, I know this is a difficult time for you and you are still mourning the loss of your friend," I cringed at the wording, "but you can't begin to repair if you don't open up. I'm only here to help."

The words soon morphed into sounds that held no meaning and I found myself teetering between believing them and rushing to my car to drive it into the nearest ditch. I did not turn to face the man, simply offering a gentle bob of my head. This seemed to work well enough for him, as he allowed me to open the door and leave with no more questions.

As I braved the cold and scrambled for my keys, my eyes began to grow wet and I started to lose complete control. I climbed into the vehicle and saw Jay already in the passenger's seat. That did me in and I crumbled forward, allowing my emotions to run a muck inside the privacy of my own car. I gripped the steering wheel in a vice grip and brought my forehead to rest roughly on the top, shaking it as though I wanted to rip it from it's foundation. Gatsby sat beside me, a gentle observer and I lost complete control. I screamed until my throat went raw in utter frustration and exhaustion. The small piece of me that always yearned for a drink began to grow stronger than ever before as my old ugly habits reared their heads. That only made me scream more, just trying to get out and let go.

After a few minutes, I calmed myself down to a gentle numbness, static crawling over my body. I turned my damp eyes to Jay, who was looking at me with a look that tore me up more than any scream could ever do. The wound dug deeper and I winced in discomfort.

Gatsby leaned forward, a hair of space between our faces, and he whispered, "Please don't do that again. Please."

He sat back and I drove to my house alone, frustrated, and feeling hopeless.

I wouldn't say my life completely when downhill after Gatsby's death; if you had asked me this same question months back I would have choked back my answer and lied through my gritted teeth to avoid it all so I could retreat home to nurse my thoughts into a drunken haze. However, as I aged and learned more about the world, I took pleasure in the fact that I got to see the sun rise and set each day unlike Jay. I had the joy of being alive while that opportunity was ripped from his fingers without his consent. I got to feel the satisfying click of buttons on my typewriter when I typed, and Jay now had to sit six feet under and decay.

I could confidently say which option I preferred.

But on the bleak nights, while my hand trembled and my mouth quivered the line began to blur and I couldn't discern what made me living. I would sit in my chair by a window, watching as the stars glittered in the sky above. My hand would clench around the small glass containing whatever I could get my hands on first, and as the liquid would quake in it's own world mine fell apart.

"God," I hissed, free hand gripping my hair tightly. "God."

The room felt too empty and too crowded all at once; I simultaneously thought I shouldn't be there and while also needed more people. I knew who I wanted with me, but my drunk mind wouldn't allow the words to be fully realized.

"This room is too damn lonely...." I muttered. "Too much space. Needs... something to it." I knocked back another drink, eyes beginning to water in protest. My body did not agree with my choice to drink, but I forced it down and commanded it to stay; my own punishment.

I looked around the house and took in every detail I ignored from day to day life. I had a hard time remembering a time I was more drunk than I was currently, so this experience both terrified me and calmed me at once. My eyes roamed over the windows, the ones that held me inside; their sleek glass that was unsmudged and their wrinkled curtains. I looked at the front door with it's hardwood design and small mail slot in the bottom section. I looked at the ceiling above me that housed long ago water damage and a ceiling fan. Towards my bedroom, there was a dark hallway void of any photos or mirrors. My kitchen was a pitiful thing, unused for the most part and too small to function properly. My eyes landed onto the desk with my typewriter, the only thing I held close to myself in the entire house.

I knew that the house could be any damn house.

"Maybe I should get some plants," I mumbled. "Would plants be a good idea?"

I asked the air this question, however I knew someone was there. But I couldn't see him right now for whatever reason. It wasn't like him to hide like that, hide from me.

Anger bloomed within. "Where are you?"

I craned my neck around myself dramatically to see if he was just somewhere I couldn't see, and became disappointed to see it was just me and the stars.

"Why are you hiding?" I asked once more. "It's not funny!"

The silence rang in my ears and I stood quickly in a drunken rage. I swayed once on my feet and once I was stable, I practically ripped my house apart. I ripped my curtain from their rod to see if Jay was behind them; I opened the front door with hope and slammed it with bitterness; I searched the ceiling for a clue and glared past the ceiling and the stars for my own misfortune; I stomped down my bedroom and ripped clothes from their hangers and sheets from my bed to look for Jay; I opened my pantries and cabinets, emptied them all, and searched them again. 

About 45 minutes later I was done and over with it, standing in the center of my hurricane and unable to do much more than drift. Absentmindedly, I brought the booze to my mouth and topped myself off, enjoying the warmth and buzz I got. Even if I lost control then, the alcohol gave me a new control. With this new power I gained, I began to fret about Gatsby and his whereabouts. Usually whenever I thought about him I saw him, standing in his utter perfection and basking in sunlight. Why today was the exception was beyond me, but in that moment all I knew was that I needed to see Jay more than I needed anything ever in my life.

"Jay..." I cried out, stalking around the messy piles, "Jay! Jay, where are you?"

Tears began to from in my eyes, either from sadness or frustration I could not say. "Jay, come out. Please!"

I began to grow desperate, kicking over my possessions to get to wherever Gatsby was. I knew he was here, he had to be. My thoughts circled one another like storm clouds over an unruly sea, fighting for dominance in my vulnerable state. The booze, predictably, was not my friend and was in fact acting against me, throwing me to my own wolves. I began to think things I hadn't ever wanted to think as the floodgates opened: If he wasn't here, where could he be? Did he have someone else to see? Was I not enough, even now, even after it all?

"Jay!" I cried out again, weakness cracking through and the booze burned. "Jay, Please, tell me where you are, tell me what to do! I don't know where you are, you have to help me! Please!"

I choked on my own breath, and tears slid freely. My sadness turned to anger as I stomped around my house once again, knowing that if I, by some miracle, found Jay, I would punch his lights out for to doing this to me. Even though I was doing it to myself, that my mind was doing this to myself, that every step I took looking for Jay I was getting further and further. But I wanted someone to blame, and blaming myself was too easy, too simple. I wanted to pin everything that had ever happened to me on Jay and brush my own responsibility. I briefly thought of my therapist and his gentle words, discussing that he thought I had a mood disorder or something along those lines. The thoughts did not bring me and joy or solace, as it did not bring me Jay. The wound cut me in half, and I felt severed.

I did not think about what Jay had become for me in my drunken stupor. I did not think about how I would have to clean up my whole house on my own. I did not think about how I would have to explain the bruises on my arms and legs from destroying everything to my therapist. I did not think about the hangover that would plague me the next day, drag me to hell and back. I did not think about the man I used to be back in New York and how he would've taken one look at me and deemed myself a drunk mess that should have weighed all his options before engaging in something I knew was dangerous and, frankly, stupid. I did not think about Daisy and her looks, or Jay and his hope, or their shared green light, or what mine had turned into. I did not think about how I reached out, across the bay and further, to grasp onto something that wasn't really there and was never there.

Instead, I fell back onto my chair, dropping the booze in a shatter and clutched my face in my hands, sobbing for a man that I could never have.

 A few months after, for once, it was sunny. It seemed as though I had been living my life in a cloudy limbo, somewhere between frigid coldness and unforgivable rainfall. It was sunny that day, however, sunny with birds and with happy clouds that bounced. The temperatures were nice and gentle, and I sat outside with a cigarette, reading over the paper.

Later that day I had a meeting with the therapist. I marked this down in my mind and took a long drag, enjoying the breeze. I read over the paper, rereading things I found interesting and skipping over parts I found dreadful.

Besides me, I felt Jay shift to read over my shoulder. I felt myself smile. "See anything you like?"

"Oh, lots. I saw the most handsome gentleman today, you wouldn't believe it!"

"Really? Do tell."

He moved behind me once more and my eyes stayed on the paper, not reading. Jay's face got close to my neck that I could almost feel him, breathing.

"Oh absolutely," he mumbled. "He was a bit shorter than I am, dark hair and the most striking eyes I had ever seen. He dressed impeccably and I swear to you, old sport, I felt my heart beat faster than ever before, might've even stopped."

I chuckled softly and knew behind me, Gatsby was smiling.

My eyes remained on the paper before me, and the warmth of the temperatures and the company filled me with a soft kind of glee, one that I held closely. I yearned to lean back and run an adoring hand through Jay's hair to show my affection, but instead simply flipped a page of the newspaper. Jay seemed to understand the gesture.

He scooted closer. "Any big plans for the day?"

"Nothing too special, but if someone were to try to convince me to go out and do something meaningful, I wouldn't stop them," I replied, smiling softly.

Gatsby took this challenge and ran with it, beginning to go off and name various activities we could go out and cause trouble with, including the museum and the library. I had to explain that I was a frequent traveler to both, and that getting on their bad sides was not something I was looking forward. Gatsby responded by attempting to drag me into his world of crime, albeit on a much smaller level. He discussed how we could steal art, or how we could get a romantic getaway with the money. I played long with his-- and by extension, my own-- fantasy by suggesting he dress sexy-like to distract the guards while I sneak round back and take the art.

The two of us joked about petty art crime until I glanced a peek at my watch. The time of my appointment was fast approaching, and I stood on my porch.

 "I have to go to my appointment," I announced, and folded the newspaper beneath my arm. The door opened and I entered, making a b-line towards the bedroom to spruce myself up for presentation. I changed into fresh clothing, splashed water on my face, and left my bedroom feeling miles better.

As I exited, I heard a soft exhale of music, a subtle whisper throughout my modest house and spread into every crevice it could find. I walked about the house trying to find the source of the music, and noticed Jay by my music player, observing it deeply. I followed up to him, quietly as to not disturb is apparent thought process. "Jay?"

He jolted from this trance, and looked down at me with wide eyes. "Oh, hello old sport! You do clean up well."

"What are you doing?" I asked, ignoring the "compliment." Gatsby responded by letting his eyes roam over the music player once more, nodding along to gentle beats and swaying with motion.

"Jay," I said once more, "I have an appointment that I can't miss--"

"Oh, I know!" He said. Gatsby took a step closer to me, eyes lit with mirth and the beginnings of a smile. "I wouldn't want you to miss your appointment. However, the music box just looked too inviting..."

Jay stopped just before me, looking down with hooded eyes as music crawled from the music box slowly, creeping down it's wood finish and on the floor beneath us. I met his gaze with wide eyes, somewhat confused and speechless. My mind did not register the sound of the words or the beat, simply stayed stuck on Gatsby and how his eyes seemed to capture me and hold me tightly.

I looked down at his hands and imagined them intertwined with mine, how they might feel. His arms looked sturdy enough to hold me throughout the night and for the rest of our lives. I took note of his knitted brow and how I longed to kiss the tension from it. Jay took up all the space in my mind and all my sense until I could think of nothing but him. The music drifted in one ear and out the other, fading backwards until it was nothing at all. If the world burned outside I would've stayed inside with Jay and let it burn and would've let it take me with it.

"I want to touch you," Jay whispered. 

"I know. The feeling is mutual."

He chuckled softly against my lips. "I want to slow dance with you; I put this song on because it reminded me of you."

"It's lovely," I lied in return. I hadn't heard a single second of the lyrics. "It's lovely."

"God Nick..." Jay bit his lip and I wanted to be there instead. "How could I have been so blind before? How did I not see?"

I wanted to blame him for pulling the rag further and tighter to his eyes, even now. I had always been there. "You're here now."

And he was; right now, there was not Daisy on Earth, not for Gatsby. I was all he could see and it was all I had ever wanted. The music was sweet and kind to us both as I reached my hand towards his. However, I pulled back knowing what would happen. He was here now, but had simultaneously been gone for months.

I hid my cowardice in my eyes and shied away from Gatsby's view while the wound pulsed; I didn't want to know what I thought his sincerity looked like, since I knew not what it was. While it was true that before Jay died I had been one of his closest and only friends, he was a man who liked to put on a mask and hid behind it. I imagined that the only person to know what Gatsby looked like at his weakest was the one person who brought him to that state in the process, bleeding out in a pool waiting for her call.

My feet began to shift as I counted in seconds I would lose on the way to the appointment. Jay stood and seemed to understand my hesitance, finally giving me the space to breathe.

We broke off. "I apologize," I stated lamely. He nodded back to me, eyes never leaving and never losing their intensity. For a moment only it made me comfortable, however the thought of my therapist and his spectacles falling down his nervously fat face reminded me of the day's duties. "I must... be going."

Gatsby seemed to be torn from his thoughts, looking at me. "Oh, yes. Have a great time, old sport!" He brought his hand up in a small, awkward half wave. I threw him one back as to not make the conversation more difficult than it already was.

I turned to leave and opened the door, my house dead silent and not a thing out of place, like it always was. I shuffled to my car, alone, and opened the driver's door for myself. The sun beat down on me, however I allowed it for the time being seeing as this could wake me up from the dream I had just been living. The entire road trip to my appointment, I couldn't stop thinking about how it would feel to have Jay holding my hand right now, as I'm driving. My blood ran to be near him, just to touch him once. Not for the first time, I thought about my cousin and how much of a fool she had been to let someone so golden go.

 One day, while I had been typing away, I received a knock on my door. This was indeed out of the ordinary, since I was not known to have been the friendliest of neighbors, of which I had very few of. In the time I had not been in New York, my time outside and about had been restrained, as per the instruction of the therapist. So to think that someone went out of their way to see me was surprising.

I rose and answered the door, finding a familiar face. "Klipspringer?"

He looked up at me, face still young. In his arms, he had a stack of perhaps 15 books. "Mr. Carraway, hello! You look well."

My hand tightened on the door knob. For a moment, I wanted to slam the door in his face and forget he had ever come by. The writer in me fought with my logical side, and in the end my curiosity won out. I opened the door wider for his entrance.

He accepted it, lugging himself and the book inside while pushing his glasses up his nose. Heftily, he sat them down on a table.

"You're not an easy man to find, Mr. Carraway." Klipspringer joked. I got him a glass of water, which he imbibed quickly.

I stood across from him in my kitchen. "I didn't know you were looking for me. I would've reached out."

"I appreciate the sentiment," he replied. "I asked all around New York for you, and no one seemed to know where you were."

My mind flashed back to a time in East Egg, seeing my cousin for the first time in many months, next to the champion golfer and the ex polo player. "Do they miss me?"

Clearly, no one had missed me.

I shrugged back at Klipspringer. "How did you end up finding me?"

"Oh, I looked through various papers; I figured you would still be in the writing business and lo and behold, I was right!" He chuckled. "I packed up what I needed and drove as quickly as I could to your city. I asked around there, and got a general idea. Truth be told, this wasn't the first house I asked for you at."

I nodded and finally allowed myself to observe the man and just he might've wanted. He was taller than before, betraying his age; The spectacles on his face were askew but he didn't seem to notice it. Deft piano player fingers drummed against his leg showing his nerves loud and clear. Klipspringer was obviously uncomfortable in my house, but then why did he try so hard to seek me out? Certainly, it was of importance.

"Did you ever find your shoes?" I spat in agitation. His face paled and I knew the dig got him.

"Look Mr. Carraway, I'm sorry. I know what I did wasn't right, but you must understand--"

"Don't you dare," I hissed, leaning forward, "come into my house and lie to my face. Tell me your business then leave."

Klipspringer's mouth snapped shut like a trap, as he nodded. He walked towards the mass of books, turning his back to observe them while obscuring his face. "When Mr. Gatsby died, Wolfsheim took his house and everything he had owned. But since he had so many belongings, it wasn't until recently that they finally went through everything and began to sell it all." He placed his hand on top of the books. "They finally got to the library, and went through all his books. But some of them weren't just novels. They were Mr. Gatsby's journals, all the way from his war times. They detailed every con, every thought and every emotion Jay Gatsby ever had until he died."

Klipspringer turned back to me. "When they looked through them, they decided that you should have them."

This surprised me greatly. "Me? Why not his father or Daisy?"

"You were the only one to answer their door when I knocked."

I nodded, understanding the position. Klipspringer said his mechanical goodbyes, not promising to keep in touch and not saying he wished I had a good life. He knew the feelings were mutual, and as he left I hoped that I would never see him again.

But then it was just me and the journals. They sat in stacks on my table, delicate and decorate. Some of them has a shiny exterior while others had splotches of mud on their spines, none of them having dates and none of them looking as extravagant as Gatsby was. I would've thought surely that if he his own books, they would've been coated in gold specks and were more bejeweled than the Crown Jewels.

My hand rubbed the one on top, entitle simply, "Journal." My fingers itched to pry the pages apart and pick at Jay's brain, to see who he was and what he did. Maybe they included secrets to his fortune, maybe they included things about his family, maybe they included things about--

"I wrote about you often."

I looked up and saw Jay, standing before me rigidly. He looked at the journals. "I wrote about you often."

I was too stunned to ask for clarification, whether he meant that as a compliment or to insult me. The books looked inviting and it was almost too much to bear. I looked over them once again. There was a good chance even Daisy hadn't read them before; this was one secret Jay and I could share all to ourselves.

"Would this be encroaching on your privacy?" I asked him and he looked at me.

"Does that really matter to you?"

I wanted to say yes and perhaps when I was younger, I would've meant it. But the words got tied to my tongue and I couldn't force them out. He noticed and looked to the books once more.

"You know," he said, "I feel as though, everybody gets one chance to do something bad. Everyone deserves at least one time to turn their back to the rules and throw caution to the wind, and allow their minds run without fear of prosecution. It could be stealing something or lying, but every person shouldn't be expected to follow the rules all the time. One flaw doesn't make you a bad person." Jay looked up at me. "Do you dare, old sport?"

My mind reeled with ideas ranging from burning the books to going through and marking each and everyone one as quickly as possible. I wanted to do everything with them and I wanted to do it with Jay's permission. Technically, I was giving myself permission but he was right: did it even matter anymore? Jay was a person, but he was a lying thief so was this punishment for his crimes? Was it fit for me to give out? Should I just send the books to Daisy like I know he would've wanted?

I walked to my pantry, and extracted a bottle of booze. Giving myself a small glass, I poured myself a generous drink, downed it, and went over to the books. I picked the top one off the stack, and got to reading.

The day was young when Klipspringer first arrived, the clouds just beginning to roll in and the sun freshly woken up and shrouding us in it's light. I had woken up myself an hour or so just before the knock came, deciding to type out a few short paragraphs I had had floating in my mind the past few weeks. I had not anticipated getting such a surprise, and such a delight.

Because that is just what it was: a delight. I had happened to stumble upon the journal describing the war and what we went through. Though Jay and I had seen one another in passing, I did not remember him with a book or writing anything down, though I'm sure I would have with my own inclination towards writing. He described the fights we went through, all the blood and bullets he saw and what it felt like to lay in the dirt as opposed to a warm bed. The notes appeared to be hastily written, scribbled in the heat of war and with a few misspellings and grammatical errors. I forgave him though, hearing what a man like Gatsby thought about something so horrifying.

I was just finishing up about half the journal, when I stumbled upon a short paragraph, stating, "I often times think of my life before this war, and the man who I was. What would he say to me if he saw this? Would he be proud? I'd like to think so, and I'd like to think that Daisy would marry me as soon as I get home as opposed to waiting for it. I'd rather not, as to not lose my courage. No, I want to marry her now."

This stopped me. It was strange to hear about Jay's fondness for Daisy outside of his own words from his mouth. Hearing how he felt about her back when they could still be something left something hollow inside my chest, something I hadn't felt in many months, a feeling I thought to be exclusive to New York. Jealousy was an emotion I was largely uncomfortable with, even with my own family. This ran deeper, as now, I really had nothing to be jealous over since this was a time when Jay didn't even know who I was, not really. It gave me a chill to think about how close I was to Gatsby when Daisy was so far, and what would've happened if I looked.

The rest of the journal went in to depth about the war and more into his emotions for Daisy. In one paragraph, he stated, "I'd like this the be kept with Daisy so she knows how much I love her. Perhaps she would cherish this and revel in the fact that I kept her so close to me. I know she would."

But in the end, I noted, I'm the one holding the books.

I thought the rest of the reading would end up as it started, with allegories for the war and pleas for the fighting to end, but I was wrong. The very last entry took me back, all the way back, and yet stopped me dead in my tracks.

The first thing I took into account was how much cleaner it was written, in both penmanship and in the quality of the paper. Clearly it was written off camp and in a well kept room, one with a desk and a properly working pen. Not to mention, the swooping lines each had a bit of a quiver to them. It gave the impression of fear, like Gatsby's hand was shaking.

The entry started off simple enough: "I think something is terribly wrong with me. Something must be wrong with me, that must be the case, this war does terrible things to a person's mind. Surely, it is a product of the environment and nothing more. After this is all said and done I can just go get medication I need and I can marry Daisy and forget about all this.

"It started off well enough, the whole endeavor. I was out trying to form a comradery with my other men in arms, simply trying to make a conversation. We discussed topics such as who were were back at home what we hoped to achieve, and what was waiting for us when it was all said and done. I was excited to reveal Daisy and my undying love for her, which most of the men reciprocated tenfold. I heard tales of women back at home, some with children and others who planned on families when they returned. I made a few good friends while we chatted, and I thought it was going to make the separation from Daisy easier."

I understood where Gatsby was coming from; on the first day on base, we all tried to find common ground between each other to find a piece of one another to save. I told them about my writing and they agreed to read my stories when I published them. I heard about sons and daughters and girlfriends and wives and I agree to bring them back home to them. We were almost like a family. I turned the page, following Gatsby as he took me by the hand and guided me.

The next sentence made my blood run cold, as those a serpent was crawling through my skin. "I never anticipated meeting John."

I had known Jay a relatively short period, in retrospect to his entire life. I had not known him more than a year and thus, only knew the summer version of himself. But when I read the journal, I heard tale after adventure about John and who exactly he was. As it turned out, he was part of our base as a simple medic. Jay described the meeting between the two, how he first saw him when he sprained his ankle in an exercise. How they got to know each other in the tents and on hikes. How they got closer, when John got word his father suffered a heart attack and was not expected to make it. The two grew closer, and Jay began to fall apart.

"If I had more time, and we lived in a different world, I think I could have fallen in love with him," the passage whispered, clean paper and all. "It's a strange feeling to have, one that you know is just on the horizon and yet is eons away. Daisy still stays in my mind as a welcomed guest, but if John came to the door I would not turn him away."

Gatsby did not elaborate exactly what John looked like, giving the impression that even Jay didn't remember; he could've been anyone, given the circumstances. What mattered is what the man made Jay feel. 

"I wish to take his hand and grip it tightly. I wish to press my lips against his and let them stay, make a home. The mirror that I look into everyday betrays who I feel I have become. I write Daisy two letters everyday, assuring her of my love. I pledged alliance to her and I am not, for a second, going to take that back and go behind her back. She waits for me home, and I wait for her here."

He skips a few lines, hesitant. "But would one kiss truly destroy her?"

I do not know if Gatsby ever happened to kiss John or what became of their relationship. After Jay admitted his desires, the journal abruptly ended and thus the story of Jay and John died with him, never to be unlocked. In a desperate attempt, I looked up to Jay.

He was staring at the journal, paying me no mind. He was wholly consumed with the reading material.

"Gatsby?" I asked. His eyes flicked over to mine, and he sighed. 

"I apologize, old sport. I just... had not heard that story in a long time."

I nodded, and held the journal out to him. "Did you ever come together, you and John?"

Gatsby's eyes went wide and he stood up straight, hands to his sides. His posture was rigid and unwelcoming, showing me that it was a topic either he did not want to revisit or one he knew I would not want to know the answer to. Part of me was annoyed at my own self censorship and another was grateful I knew where my limit was. In the most selfish way possible, I wanted to be Jay's and wanted him to have no others.

We sat close to one another, and Jay made a gesture to the journals. "I hope you're not busy, old sport. But it appears you have your work cut out for you."

"Oh yes," I replied, standing up from my chair and approaching the books, "I do indeed. But I intend to get to the bottom of just who you are."

Gatsby chuckled beside me, placing his hands in his pockets. There was something so wholesome about the action it made me want to hug him and never let him go, but I restrained myself. For the time being, I had some reading to do.

The journals went by relatively quick for someone who had planned their entire day around writing and perhaps tending to their house; I read snippets that I don't think Jay would've ever told me himself, such as his passion for gardening and his favorite foods. In a strange sort of way, I decided that I liked this information about Jay the best; it brought me closer to him with stepping over his lines of trust and decadency. We were in a strange sort of limbo, where I knew about his past while he was still living and yet we were practically strangers. I was amended wounds brought on by time as Gatsby breathed over my shoulder.

The horizon slowly faded and mixed into the twilight, and before I knew it the skies had turned dark. I looked up from my respective journal, eyes over the edge and observing just had little had changed while I was reading. For a few moments it felt as though I had become the character of Jay Gatsby, rags to riches and an agonizingly handsome face. But Nick Carraway sat in the seat, and I stood on wobbly legs.

"Today has been unexpected," Jay mumbled, "I never thought I'd hear these things again. You give the new life."

I looked at him. "You are different in the pages then in person."

"I hope that's not an insult, old sport."

"Oh, of course not!" I laughed lightly. "You hold yourself to a different standard on paper."

"I could say the same about you."

I allowed my face to soften for a moment of fondness, then turned my back to him. The stack of books lounged on my counter top, mocking me. I had only gotten through about four of the fifteen that day. A small part of me wanted to spend every waking moment trying to read the words, but a larger part of me yearned for the loving embrace of sleep. 

The allure of the bed won me over in the end, and I soon found myself cradled in the sheets. However, sleep evaded me. I had learned too much information in the past few hours to not process them. There was no way that I could mentally organize everything I had read about Gatsby, so I sorted them out by what interested me the most.

What struck me was how after John was last mentioned, about how Jay could've fallen in love with him and would've kissed him if he had the chance, he is never mentioned again. In fact, it seems that after John is removed from the picture, Gatsby's desire for Daisy rises to a boiling point. He wrote her sonnets, compared her to angels and swans, and expressed his love in flowery sentences oozing with love.

I may not be one for romance, especially with women as my experience was extremely limited, but I knew when something was amiss when I saw it. Granted while he was still living, I wouldn't allow my brain to think such hopeful thoughts. They would make a dishonest man out of me, and if there was one thing I was, it was honest. And honestly, Jay would never look at me like I wanted him to. He never did and now never could.

I gripped my sheets tights in my hands and turned to my side. 

Why was I even doing this? Jay had been using me, that I knew. He used me and my connections to get to my cousin and when I served his purpose, he let me fall to the waist side. Granted, I had allowed him to excuse me when I was not needed and took the opportunities to leave my cousin and him to their escapades; but that doesn't mean what he did was wrong. Jay Gatsby wronged me and never truly apologized for it. I had a hard time believing even he knew what he was doing was wrong and would need an apology. Something within Jay was broken and he saw daisy as the only cure. But all she had done was made him worse, because that woman was poison and Jay Gatsby was obsessed.

Deep within myself, I knew why I kept reading. But I smothered the thought with the words I ingested that day playing on repeat in my head and eventually, slept.

The next morning, I got dressed for my work day that I knew was to be plagued with distraction and wandering eyes. With this newfound hobby of looking into Gatsby's past, I felt this mound of pressure on my back, breathing and sending chills. I spent every moment thinking that people would find out what I knew, impossible it was yet I was paranoid. This was my secret to know and I wanted to keep it close.

I drove into the town square slowly and deliberately, keeping my eyes trained before me as to not veer into danger. Ever since my birthday back in the summer, I had been extra cautious about driving. Even when I least expect it, I can faintly hear the voice of Jordan lulling me into a trance of cobwebs and untouched seas. The road was a dangerous place to be, as it put everyone on an equal opportunity list. To my left, I spotted a shoddy looking car with it's front bumper smashed nearly inside itself, and in front of it, a mangled mass of metal that once resembled a fairly decent car, smoking and obliterated. 

"Keep driving," Gatsby whispered from his seat next to me, and I did.

The doors pushed open and I entered the smallish building, removing my coat and hat which were both dusted with snow. The room was warm with smoke and the aroma of coffee, and I felt at ease.

The desks were filled with my co-workers, who were hastily typing away without a care or even an acknowledgment my way. I walked past them, and sat at my desk at the very back.

Next to me, I hear the clicking of heels. "Nick!"

I looked up and saw a portly woman with round features approaching me. I smiled her way, lugging my briefcase onto the desk. "Good morning, Alice. How are you today?"

"Oh, I'm lovely! How are the article coming along?"

"Rather well, I'm happy to say."

"Splendid!" She exclaimed, walking behind me. "Ya know, we haven't heard that much from you. Are you doing okay?"

I gulped. I didn't get very close to the people I worked with, as it felt wrong to put on a facade for them. If I wanted to know people, I would do it as my truthful, thirty year old self. But as I was slowly recovering, I didn't even know who I was. I needed to know myself before I tried talking to others. As a result, my contact with others was extremely limited and I only gave them enough information to satisfy themselves; no one ever wanted to know how your day went, they just ant you to know that a care, even with this small amount. 

"I'm fine," I answered, and Alice accepted the lie with welcome arms.

I lost myself in the writing, typing out line after line of news to get my mind off what was at home waiting for me. I briefly touched on the fact that if I were still in the bond business, I would have no problem getting myself lost in the work. But I left that life in New York, this I knew. 

I wrote article after article about everything from the stock market to missing pets in the area. The day passed quickly as my fingers flew and I had a vast majority of stories out and finished, ready for printing the next day. My stack of papers next to me sat as I stood and stretched out my back form the prolonged time in the chair. The day had been very pleasant for my troubled mind, and I was grateful to have an escape such as this one. 

I left my papers on Alice's desk, who squealed in excitement and accepted them, thanking me for the day and wishing me safe travels home. I told her the feelings were mutual, and I left the building to make my way home and onto more important things.

The drive home was uneventful, my mind already in my chair before the window and flipping through pages delicately. Trees blurred past me, scenery was blotchy and unfocused and I was home, finally.

The door ripped open as I threw my coat on the chair and I sat in my chair, reaching for a notebook and opening it quickly.

"Nick."

My head looked up at Jay, standing and looking down at me, somehow taller than I had ever seen him before. His eyes were stormy with anger, stance rigid. 

I swallowed. "Yes, Jay?"

He stepped forward, softly. "You must know what you are getting into before you dive in deep, old sport." He walked towards me, but the warmth that had previously floated around him like confetti was absent, replaced with chills and the murky depths of a particularly upset ocean. "You must realize what you are doing and really think about what you will read about me." His fists tightened. "I loved Daisy, Nick. She was the best part of my life, the only part of my life I saw worth living for. I lied, stole and cheated to win her affections. I loved that woman more than I loved breathing."

My heart began to beat, so fast it began to crumble. I nodded, clutching the notebook tighter. I knew what was happening: I was preparing myself for disappointment. I didn't know what was ahead, unexplored seas, and thus I was readying myself for the destruction ahead. My expectations were lowered, beneath the ground and earth. I nodded again.

His face hardened, as he noticed that I still had a glimmer of hope. "You were nothing to me, Nick. I used you for one purpose and one purpose only, and you couldn't even be good enough to help me get that. You simply sit back and let life guide you by the hand. Your writings won't ever be good enough to allow people to know how you feel. You think you have something to add to the world?"

My mind knew that it would never let go of Jay, so it attacked everything it could; my writing, my presence, my livelihood. That could all be manipulated until it was unrecognizable, but my belief in Jay Gatsby was undying.

"I know," I whispered to myself. "You used me. You don't use people you love."

"I never loved you."

My eyes shut, trapping myself in my own head. "I... I know."

I looked, and my hands began to shake ever so slightly. I was containing every emotion that was threatening to burst from it's stitches I had ever so carefully sewn the past few months. But I had to know. 

My fingers picked at the leather bound book, and I thought of John. I ripped the book open.

My eyes read every line carefully, as it detailed Jay's life about six months before my arrival in New York. He discussed the parties he threw in great detail, and about every single detail that went into them including flowers, booze, and scenery. He discussed the daily routines he put into place on the off chance he ran into Daisy, which never occurred. The shirts, being ironed, the smells he  leaked from his house, decorations of his lawn. I chuckled at some points he made regarding whether or not he should put something in the paper in hopes that Daisy would read it. It was somewhat sweet to see how much Gatsby was willing to go through in the name of love, but then I remembered what came of it.

I stopped at a particular date. It was the day I moved into the house next door.

I didn't even give myself the opportunity to think as I quickly began to read, "I saw a car pull up to the house next to me, somewhat shrouded by the trees and shrubbery. Truth be told, I hadn't even noticed the house had gone for sale, so just as quickly as I had noticed someone was living there. It's strange to think I had somebody so close to me now. I had gotten so used to being alone on this side of my world that the thought of someone watching my pursuit is troubling. I need to do something to get on their good side. But that can take time later, I need to plan more festivities..."

Hearing that Gatsby was somewhat weary of my presence reassured me; it meant that he was as nervous as I was to have a neighbor so close. Granted, my nervousness left me within a few days and his lingered possibly until the day he died, there was a time we were on even playing grounds. I read on, skipping a few pages of party planning.

"The weekend has arrived once more I am, again, suffocated with things to do and plan. I hate these parties if I'm being honest, and would never do them if I knew for a fact that Daisy loved them."

I paused. Despite being quite estranged from her, even I knew Daisy distaste for larger parties. When we were younger and more carefree, she would relish in taking a select people onto her roof. They would peruse the garden and run their expensive fingertips over every leaf and bud, leaving the commotion downstairs. She liked to imagine them in a world all of their world. Faintly, I recalled Jordan expressing similar interests and I discovered softly that I certainly have a type in regards to the company I keep.

Nonetheless, even I knew Daisy's preference towards the more dainty of parties, and I was far from in love with her. Jay spent his whole life and paycheck on an idea of Daisy. There was no doubt that if he spent a fraction of that time actually discussing what she loved, things would have turned out better- or at least, differently. It left a bitter taste on my tongue, the fakeness seeping from the pages into my fingers.

For a moment, I hated Gatsby; the way he tried for Daisy and her affection. I thought him to be the most blind man to ever live, not seeing what was presented right before him and brushing off reality as though it were a dust mite. I wanted to grasp his shoulder and shake some sense into him, curse him out for allowing the blindfold to cover his eyes.

I looked up at Jay, and he nodded at me. I looked back down and flipped the page.

My breath stopped, "Something terrible has happened.

"Leave this to happen me now, of all of the times and of all of the days. I have trouble articulating this into words, and now have to take extra security measures in regards to these novels. If these get into unfaithful hands I fear my reputation will be tarnished and I'll be left with nothing.

"But hell, maybe for the first time in my entire life, it's worth it."

Jay's writing is shaky, reminiscent of his times in the war and with John. Air was entering my lungs but I hadn't taken I single breath. I looked up to Gatsby once more, but he was obstructing his face. His back was rigid once more and I noted it was a seldom action. If Gatsby was here, there was a reason. I had to find it all on my own, so it seemed.

"My whole life I have spent in chasing after something that always evaded me at the last second. I have, simultaneously, been running from a cause I have yet to face. A shadow is following me and until today I have kept my distance. Excluding a few extrusions in my younger days, I have remained constant in this. My mind has been flooded with Daisy and everything that encompasses her. However, I do think it should be illegal to be so stunningly gorgeous.

"I had been on my deck, gazing over the water when he exited her car. It was a modest car, nothing extravagant but not too shoddy. He opened the door with excellence and while not noticing my looks, went to the trees separating our houses."

"Jay?" I asked him hollowly.

"My chest did something funny then, stuttered in a way I hadn't felt ever before. My cheeks flooded with color as my breath escaped me. I thought perhaps I was having a heart attack on account of my rapid beat. The man snipped a few flowers from a large tree, re-entered his car, and drove off while never acknowledging my presence. It was most certainly for the better, since I was left gaping and positively buzzed."

Gatsby turned to face me, eyes filled with tears. Unbeknownst to me, my eyes were similarly misty, but for what; anger, sadness, happiness? We were both lost and dazed. The surroundings of my house seemed to melt away until the only things left were me, Jay, and my new gospel. 

"I must know more about this man and who he is. I'll invite him over but I must remember to keep a fair distance. But not to act on these... peculiar impulses. Daisy is still what I want and who I've spent my whole life wanting."

I couldn't seem to take my eyes off of Jay as he walked ever closer, tears now streaming down his face. Before he had died, I had only seen Jay cry once. We had been in his house just after a party. Daisy had left with Tom in a hurry, leaving only Jay and I to reflect on the arrangement. A bottle of booze was passed between us, taking delicate sips and smoking cigarettes together. It was the closest thing to intoxicated I had ever seen him and similarly I was feeling to effects. Not enough to be unsafe but enough to feel something.

He took a long sip. "It's not fair."

"What's not fair?" I asked, inhaling smoke. Gatsby turned and looked out onto the water.

"This whole game I'm playing. I chase Daisy and she always goes back to Tom." He turned to look at me. "What do I have to do to make her stay?"

"Have you... talked to her?"

Gatsby scoffed. "Talking does nothing, old sport. Was does talking do if she isn't ever listening to me?"

I shrugged at him. "Perhaps you could write something for her. It helps me think and process what I'm doing when things overwhelm me."

"It's easy for you to say. Your writing is impeccable."

I had blushed at him, glancing his way daringly. "Are you tell me you haven't ever written to express yourself? Not the type of thing they do at Oxford?"

He was silent for a while, still staring out on the water to absorbing the air. He had looked elegant in his subtlety, smoke curling around his face and highlighting his best features, which just so happened to be all of them. His brow was knitted in confusion. I inched closer, only so much. 

Suddenly, there were tears on his cheeks. I was somewhat shocked, this act coming almost out of nowhere at all. Jay sniffled and looked down pathetically, and I rubbed his back. "Jay? What's wrong?"

He tensed. "I'm... I'm not like you, Nick. We are not similar."

I felt my air get evicted from my persons. "You're drunk."

It is likely I will never forget the look Jay gave me then; the shadows from the lights of his house contrasting off the moon on the water. He slowly moved his head from it's hanging position to look at me. His eyes were wide and filled with an emotion I was unfamiliar with in regards to Gatsby. They showed clearly he was drunk, but something was deeper beneath them, hidden under blankets of tears. In my mind I called it longing, but the thought caused me to short circuit. I tossed it up to both of us being drunk off our asses. Gatsby's lips parted and my hands grabbed at the step beneath me, anticipating and believing more in this moment than anything ever before. I was reminded of how I was in love with this man before me, and waited for the ride of my life as I leaned in.

The moment ended when Gatsby stood, wiping his eyes, and told me he better be off to bed. I agreed and left soon after, too stunted to feel disappointed. That night I had smoked an entire pack of cigarettes and didn't sleep a lick.

But now, Jay wasn't moving to stop the tears. He let them wash over his pretty face and held nothing back. Now, I could clearly see the longing in his eyes. They screamed at me and pinned me to my chair holding me and forcing me to notice it all. I felt drunk then despite knowing I was more than sober.

I flipped through the remaining pages of the journal, skimming passages from days I saw as completely irrelevant. I gained a new perspective. 

"Nick Carraway. A fitting name for someone so blunt and honest in his ways. Why can't everybody be more like him?"

"I bought more of the champagne I know Nick likes. Hopefully he'll notice. He rarely does."

"I almost forgot to call Daisy today, I instead dialed Nick's number. I had to pry the phone out of my own hand to end the call. I'll call him again tonight."

"Nick," Gatsby whispered. "Nick, Nick, Nick."

I read on, picking up phrases from Jay, including things about what I wore, the car I drove, how I handled situations, my job and many others. My skin shimmered and yet my heart had been stopped for a while. I felt as though I was picking at Jay's brain, dissecting it. I knew all his personal information and was too far gone to care. He would've been mad, I know. But he was dead and lost all his rights to keep secrets from me after this.

I grew angry. Why hadn't he told me? Jay wasn't someone to hold anything back, including confronting Tom about Daisy on my birthday. This was something big, bigger than Jay and most definitely bigger than myself. We could've gone through it together, held one another through the storm and survived and even thrived. He knew me as honest but I knew him as the biggest liar the world had ever known. It left me to wonder how Jay saw himself.

"I almost kissed Nick tonight and it kills me. I knew getting drunk with him would be risky, but I did it anyway. I think if he had asked me to jump off a bridge I'd have done it.

"Daisy doesn't make me feel this way, no one ever has. This is something Nick has crafted all on his own. He owns it and holds it tightly.

"He was always better at words than me, if we were switched he could describe this better than I. My heart beats for him and I'm starting to become obsessed with him. I could very easily be-"

But that's where it ended. The line stopped and a few phrases were crossed out to near destruction. I had no way of reading what had previously been. Interestingly, as I flipped through the remaining pages of the journal, they were all blank. Gatsby had left the journal to age and be incomplete and had gone on to start other journals. This story had been ended and he began others. Desperately I flipped through the remaining ones, finding nothing but Daisy once again. It seemed every third word in the damn thing had been her name. But Nick Carraway was never mentioned again.

I was left all in my own world, floating above the ground. I thought I should be jumping for joy, squealing for knowing that once upon a time Gatsby felt this way for me. But the past and done and over with. In my hands I held a stick of dynamite, one threatening to explode and tear any redeeming quality Gatsby left to the public. A secret like this, now, would be in final nail in his coffin. The wound pulsed and grew until I thought it might kill me.

My neck craned towards Jay, looking for anything to hold onto in him. His eyes were wide and vulnerable and he muttered, "I made a huge mistake."

"Jay..."

"No Nick, I did. I was scared, I was obsessed with how people saw me. I didn't think about myself at all, hell I don't even know who I am."

I sighed, suddenly exhausted. "It's in the past, Jay. There's nothing either of us can do now."

He knelt before me. "I would've done it all differently. I want you to know that."

A part of me didn't believe him, but I forced myself to nod. I wanted him to tell me that he loved me, feel the words on my tongue and hold them close; but they never came. Besides, at the end of the day, who was I truly? I wasn't an abandoned friend, as I knew Jay did not treat me as though we were the best of friends. We were not strangers, as I knew more about him than most. We were not lovers, never in love at the right time. I was just myself and he was Gatsby, imperfect and confused and lost in the big bad world.

I now faced a crossroads, split evenly: I could go on my life as though I was ignorant of the journals and credit Jay as a friend through and through. However, on the other sides, the more selfish part of my brain wanted to mourn him like he was ever mine to mourn. I was the only one left to care, even his father would join his son soon enough. I'd be the only one left in the entire world to see Jay properly.

Gatsby held his hand out, seeming to entertain the thought of touching mine. However as it descended, it passed through me completely and melted away, like it always did. I felt the wound begin to only throb and not ache like it had once before, and I caught myself smiling.

We looked at each other then, two people desperately in love with one another and yet as far apart as they can be. I longed to feel the heat of his skin and whisper my praises into his lips as the snow fell outside. I'd never had Jay then but now, here, it was almost enough.