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It’s evening again, and my first thought when I awoke was you. It has been, every single night, every single week, every single month, every single year. It’s routine, isn’t it? Rise from my slumber, and your face is all I see when I blink, when I unfocus my eyes, when I lose myself in thought. It’s you, it’s always you.
My new housemates, they didn’t know you. They only know you from the stories, the glitter portrait, from the way that when I go quiet and they can only assume I’m thinking of you. They don’t know what it’s like to fall for someone fragile, mortal. Someone who won’t be the same in fifty years. All of them pity me, and I pity them. They will never know what we could have had, if I’d just done something.
But my love, I wake up in the evening with tears in my eyes because I saw you celebrating your reflection floating, saw you smiling through tears of your own when I left you, saw you in the Panera Bread when you were nineteen and your eyes went massive seeing me for the first time. No better person could have come into my long, long unlife than you. Even with hundreds, maybe thousands of years left, I know I will never meet someone that could hold a candle to you.
Even though you are gone, I love you. And the day I stop thinking of you, what will happen to me then? Who will I be the first day I stop missing you?
There’s no clock chiming, indicating the hour, no hands telling me just how long you’ve been gone. But I know in the core of my cold body. Every moment I don’t feel your warmth radiating over to me, hear you fiddling around with a dusty feather stick, see you approaching me with that bright smile on your face, I know that I’m just doomed.
I’m doomed to repeat this dance for the rest of eternity: meeting someone new, ignoring every sign that they care, running, and losing them just when I realise how much they matter. It will never change. If Colin Robinson was right, the end of the world shouldn’t be too far off, but the heat death, the asteroid, or the super volcano cannot come too soon.
I will never meet you again in some afterlife, if I believed in one all of those years ago. And I didn’t move quickly enough to make you like me, all you ever wanted, and now you’re somewhere I can’t imagine. I wish I could summon you here, just for a little while, and tell you what I meant to say but couldn’t force past my lips. If I had just a night to tell you how much I appreciate you, care about you, and love you, I could face another night. But I’ve done it all, my dear, and nothing works.
I’ve done it all. And nothing works.