I’m a writer. I always have been. I started off with short stories, and moved onto books. I’ve always taken pride in that, having that much power over words. I loved messing with worlds I created, and the stories within them. Messing with characters, and their fate. Crafting the perfect story, the perfect ending. Going back to the beginning and realizing it doesn’t quite match, rewriting the beginning. I stick to my ending.
You and I, we are a story untold. A story unfinished. And for once, I was not the writer. I was just a character, and not even the main one. I had no power over the story, like the story did over me. I never knew where the story was heading, or where it took me, until I got sucked into an abyss at the end. They never tell you what happens to characters whose roles in the story are over.
If I could start over, honey, I so would. I’d relive the beginning, the very first page. I’d relive the times I made a complete fool out of myself in front of you. I’d relive the moments we laughed until we cried. I’d relive the first date, and the last one. The first time you held me, and we slept in your twin-sized bed, barely enough for one person but somehow, we fit. I’d gladly start over and change almost nothing. Except the crashing; me collecting the fragments and you walking away. Maybe we could rebuild our masterpiece, piece by piece. Maybe we could start over. I’d rewrite the ending.
In my version, you’d stay.
In my version, I’d be enough for you.
In my version, I don’t fall apart.
I rewrite our story, over and over with a million different endings, none like the one that still haunts me. But your version never changes.
In your version, the story continues but I’m no longer a part of it.