For Every Missing Shade

Entry 46

Confused, I wondered how I could possibly have belonged there. It was ugly and colorless. It was everything I fought against.

Suddenly, everything clicked. "I... I did belong there," I said.

She looked at me understandingly. "The cruel and indifferent world I woke up in was a world I created. It wasn't reality, it was something I created myself. My parents just showed me how to get out. Same with you."

My heart beat faster. "So that world was my own creation? I was the reason it was grey?"

"Color isn't something you paint for the world. Color is something you uncover when you let the world paint itself. You was begging the world to look how you wanted it to look. You imagined color as your own individuality, but that's not how it's supposed to work."

I looked around at the world Emma lived in. The world was bursting with color, but in every way I never could have imagined. Every way I never could have created.

Emma spoke up again. "Israel."

"What?" I asked.

"We both know how this ends," she said. Her eyes began glistening with tears.

Fear rose inside me. "What are you talking about? This is us, this is our paradise!"

"Israel, I can't stay here," she said, her voice starting to crack.

"No, no, you can't mean that. You're here. I'm here. We can live here forever."

"Israel, we both know that can't happen."

My eyes filled with tears as well. "I don't care, we're meant to be together. How can you leave so soon? I just got here!" I yelled.

"Israel, you need to listen to me. I'm not meant to be here anymore. I wish I was, but I'm not."

I grabbed ahold of her hands and begged with her. "Emma, no. I already lost you once, I can't do it again. This world is supposed to be perfect, why would you leave?"

"I'm sorry. Everything will be okay, I promise."

I wanted to fight her decision more, but I knew she had made up her mind. I pulled her into a tight embrace, my tears hitting her shirt.

I raised my head and looked into her eyes. "What should I do?"

She looked me in the eyes. "That's a question I can't answer for you." She hugged me one last time. "I love you, Israel."

"I love you too," I said, holding her head and back as close as I could.

She backed away. "Let's go home. The sun is setting. Let's go to bed."

We walked back to our tree house. I put on music as she cooked dinner. We talked and laughed and cried together. In her dresser was the adult dragon costume she found in the cornfield. On the dining table was the antler candlestick she took from our colorado cabin. She put on her skydiving outfit for me and showed me a picture of her birth mom.

As we lay in bed, I felt the calm rise and fall of her chest. Unburdened. Healthy. I tried to hold each moment dear, knowing that I could never hold tightly enough.

Eventually and without realizing it, I slowly drifted away to sleep.

--

It hurt to wake up. It hurt to dream about her. It hurt to live in a world where she didn't exist anymore.

It hurt.

I didn't eat breakfast when it was in front of me. I didn't talk to my parents when they were in front of me. I needed to write a speech for my dead girlfriend, and then I needed to go see my dead girlfriend. That was enough to keep my mind occupied.

After I didn't eat breakfast, I took a nap and then didn't eat lunch. I went up to my room and tried to write again, and then I failed again. Eventually, my parents came up to my room and reminded me to get ready for the wake.

I almost forgot about the wake. It had already felt like years since I last saw Emma, but I was happy to see her again. So oddly happy that I had to remind myself that she would be dead.

I put on a suit and walked out the door with my parents, who had bought flowers and a present for Emma's parents.

I got into the car empty-handed.

When we got there, I sat in the back row. I talked to Emma's parents, her parent's friends, a select few of my classmates, and Stew. Stew was a mess, actually. He was almost more unstable than I was. Each person in the room eventually walked to and from the casket.

I tried to see if anything had changed with them after they saw her. I was waiting for some doctor to walk up to the casket and confirm, "no guys, she's actually still alive. A hell of a deep sleeper, though."

I wished, but it didn't happen. I should have known by then that there was, and probably will always be, a strict chasm between what I wish for and what actually happens to me

My parents eventually walked to me after they got done talking to Emma's parents and urged me to go up. They claimed I would never forgive myself if I didn't see Emma for one last time after her death. I didn't agree, but I guess I didn't want to take my chances.

I walked up to the casket, my legs going numb and my palms sweating. I took a deep breath as I knelt before it.

I barely recognized her. She had on loads of makeup, but she never wore makeup. I was confused at the sight of it. Didn't anyone who knew her help get her ready? It was like looking at a statue of someone.

It wasn't her. She doesn't look like that.

She should have halfway brushed hair, lazily put into a messy bun. She should have a mischievous half-smile, showing everyone that she was about to do something funny, irreverent, and life-changing all at the same time. She shouldn't be holding a handkerchief and a ring, she should be holding a plane ticket and her car keys.

I thought about what she would say if she were here right now. Well, here and not dead. We could make fun of her together, laughing about all the things she was wearing. If she wasn't that worried about what her makeup looked like when she was alive, how could she care about it that much after she was dead?

I ended up telling her a couple of jokes, mostly at her expense, and then got up. I tried to hide my smile as I gave her mom and dad a hug, and then I grabbed my coat and left.

I tried to write again once I got home, but my mind went numb every time I looked at my notebook. I tried to work through different parts of her personality, pointing out the parts of her that were most worth sharing. Soon, I realized that every part of her was worth sharing. So instead of writing, I started crying.

I opened up her notebook, careful to not let any tears fall onto it. I flipped around to when she was dating entries in mid-December. I read some of her entries and skipped over other ones, but then I found an entry that was titled.

After I read the first few lines, I realized it was a short story. Then I read some more and tore out the page. It was midnight at that time, eight hours before I had to get dressed up for her funeral. It was then when I figured out what I should say in her speech.