Story

Now that I've written this, I realize maybe I'm not really upset at him. I'm upset at what the truth I knew to be the truth before feels like when said aloud. At one point when cuddling me, he whispered, "I'm sorry our paths couldn't have coincided better this time." It was the most authentic and comforting and painful thing he could have said, and for a split second it sucked me out of his room and Madrid and Europe and Earth and this lifetime. For that fraction of time I was back with my pen, writing my stories. And he was sitting with me, peeking over at my page and saying, "I'm sorry our paths won't coincide better in this next story." And I just smiled and flipped to the pages in other stories from the past and future, and pointed. He skimmed them and then grinned and kissed me on the forehead.