A Dying Novelist's Last Love Letter

  I stare the down at the page, watching as the cursor mocks at me. It mocks at me, blinking there constantly, until an eternity I will not live to see. I don’t need to live to see eternity; I only need to live to see your beautiful face again.

 In your old pictures, I see you becoming more and more beautiful, blossoming even – timeless and never-changing. I can only look at myself in the mirror, disgusted. I have become sour, bitter; the lines of age are already beginning to creep on my face.

 I’m dying.

  The cold has just begun and I can already feel it draining the energy from me. In all this time, I’ve never forgotten you and what you’ve done to and for me. I guess I can just shoot you an email, or even a text, but this is one of those things that have to be personal, physically created from my hand.

 Have you ever thought of it? The beauty of words; I am a Creator, I can make anything I want with these words, I am in control of whatever universe I choose to create. I am in control of Creation and Destruction, of beginning or of end, or am I? I can create a thought, a short story or a novel, and never finish it, and I can die. I’ve thought about this before many times. I’ve never been a fan of sequels, but the ideas have come into my head from time to time. I always do what I want, but it’s always fun to do something for the fans, fulfill the fantasies they themselves have created.

 But it would be a shame for me to create something, a vast universe, infinite and immense, and then leave it unfinished.. What a waste that would be – for both myself and my readers.

  I know you, I already know what you’re thinking – poor fool’s dying, wants one last wish. I can see his ego hasn’t changed. I know. I’ve never moved on, and you have; you settled down, you didn’t die young, like you wanted. You have a beautiful husband and family. I have fame and fortune, and it means nothing.

 I remember going over to your house, how you would cook and clean, and jesting: “I’m going to be a great housewife one day.” You became what you always hated, but you were happy; you had everything you could have ever desired. I know you’ve read my works, and you know how you’ve inspired me. This is my time to call you egomaniacal: every time you’ve as so much suspected that one of my characters was based on you – even loosely – you were right.

 Now look at me; I have nothing and everything at once. I became what I’ve always wanted; I made money, I have people that love me and a lot that hate me. Yet, in a sense, I didn’t get what I always wanted. You may call it a silly crush that’s lasted way too long, or even an obsession – it’s neither. I’ve been with others, male and female, one-on-one; in groups, and I’ve never felt as whole as I have with you.

 I never told you this; I told no one: You invited me to your wedding. You found me somehow and you sent me an invitation. I wanted to rip it up into shreds, find you and spit in your face. How dare you mock me. In the end, I saw you happy, and that’s all that mattered. You were absolutely radiant, smiling; and your husband – you deserved him. I could tell that you finally found someone perfect. I couldn’t stand it; I had to leave early. That was the last time I ever saw you. It began to rain as I drove away; I put the roof down on the convertible. I couldn’t tell if tears or rain were on my face; I honestly didn’t care.

 Like I’ve done so many times before, I hurt myself that day again. I swiped a few bottles of wine from the service, and helped myself on the side of the road. You probably remember the accident; it was all over the news. It even inspired a few more novels. In dreams, you came back to me, only to be snatched by reality – a reality that I don’t even know exists anymore.

  I hope one day we’ll meet in the afterlife, and you’ll be kinder. I hope this letter expresses what you meant to me, and if you want to meet up in the afterlife somewhere, I’ll greet you with a smile. Maybe by then, the ice on your shoulder should have melted.