"Why don't you be the artist and make me out of clay? Why don't you be the writer, and decide the words I say? Because I'd rather pretend that I'll still be here at the end, only it's too hard to ask, "Won't you try to help me?"."
Her words repeated themselves over and over in my head. "Make me out of clay." Does she mean make the ideal version of her? "Decide the words I say." What is that supposed to mean?
After she said that, she ran off. I don't understand. I love her for her. I wouldn't change her for the world. I said or did something she didn't like, and it's been bugging her ever since. Whatever I did, I'm sorry. All I wanted was to surprise you, but all I did was hurt you.
I wrote this letter, to be the writer, though I can't decide the words you say. I have gone to your parents' house to "make you out of clay". I had wanted to make our anniversary special, but I messed up. Again.
You became the writer, so I'll decide the words I'll say. I'm sorry too, I assumed the worst, and didn't think to ask you about it. I drove to my parents' house where I found the most perfect, most realistic sculpture of me I've ever seen. Mum told me you went back home. So I followed.
I pulled up and I thought you had left me. You hadn't. I opened the door, tears rolling down my cheeks, to you. You were down on one knee. You did all of this for me and I love you for it. You helped me, and I don't think you even realised it.
