I used to wholeheartedly believe that he could never die. That in my mind, he would always be the man I had hoped and prayed he would one day become. The man I swore was simply waiting to be discovered under his douchebag facade. The man who had yet to emerge but I still defended endlessly.
It wasn’t long ago, that I was still engulfed with the idea of the fatal flaw—our fatal flaw. I scripted it like this..
“So there was a fatal flaw in God’s divine plan. What he was made of, was also used to create me. We would always be one, in both body and soul…made of the same fabric, but not destined to be together.”
I always thought that beyond a shadow of a doubt, we had been one another’s soul mates…in a different life—dimension—time—what have you…
I was truly convinced that our souls and hearts had a deeply rooted connection.
But we didn’t.
Had I been able to stop time, freeze moments, keep him in my arms for more than a blink of an eye, then, yes, maybe—we could’ve had what I had so desperately wished for.
Because in those snippets of time, he pretended so well to be mine and to want me and to long for me. In those beloved memories, he played the part.
The truth is though-- even when a writer loves you more than her precious vignettes--you, the most devilishly handsome subject, still and will die.
The light you once sparked in her eyes will fade, and the thud you made her heart produce will subside, and once and for all, she’ll let your memory escape from the depths of her mind and leave no trace behind.