Light spilled through the curtains of my room, hitting my eyes and seeming to pry at my lids, forcing me into wakefulness. I slowly began to blink myself awake, trying to accustom my sleep deprived body to the sudden influx of light that was brushing so painfully against my eyes. As I blearily opened my eyes into the sun, I was filled with the simple joy that always fills me at the start of a sunny day. This happiness was abruptly shattered as I recalled the events of the previous week. Grief swept over me in crashing waves, and I struggled to cope with the loss of one who had so recently found the way into my heart.

Gatsby was dead.

His cheery voice would never again fill my head, congenially inviting me to go flying with him. I would never hear him refer to me affectionately as "Old sport," with that endearing calmness and nonchalance. I groaned aloud, trying to hold back the pain that had welled up in my chest. As I moved to look out the window, I slipped into a diversionary tactic I had been employing ever since the funeral. I began to have a conversation with Gatsby, talking to him, pretending that his silence was merely interested listening, and not the reality that he would never again answer me.

"Gatsby, it's so bright out this morning. I was sure I closed the curtains last night, but apparently I forgot. Ah well. I really should be off looking for work. Ever since I moved back West I've just been drifting aimlessly among my regrets… I mean… I wish I could have just TOLD you…"

"Told me what, old sport?"

A cheerful voice rang out through the room, and my heart constricted so tightly I thought I was going to burst. Still looking out the window, I began to mutter to myself.

"I've gone crazy. I knew it wasn't normal to be talking to a dead man, and yet I persisted. Why didn't I move back in with my family? Maybe things might have been different if I hadn't cloistered myself off from the world… I'll never find work again if I have to go to a sanitarium… Why? This isn't fair!"

A large hand descended on my shoulder, rubbing soothingly. Against my better judgment, I relaxed, enjoying the touch I had been denied for so long. If insanity allowed me to live out my fantasies, then maybe I could learn to accept my lot in life.

A jolly chuckle seemed to dance in my ears, and the cheerful voice I had come to appreciate so much in such a short time spoke again, this time with the intent to reassure.

"Oh, Nick, Nick, old fellow, you can't honestly believe I'd allow something like a little gunshot wound to take me out, eh? I mean, honestly, bad form. No, I assure you, I am quite well. I'm sorry for any distress I may have caused, but I mean, there's no harm done, right? All is well again!"

At these words, I turned slowly, still not believing what was happening. As I caught my first glimpse of the face that I had longed to see ever since the empty funeral, something inside me snapped. How DARE Gatsby do this to me? I had attended his funeral, wept over him, cried over him, lost sleep over him, and all this time he had been FINE. My expression, at first disbelieving, soon changed to one of extreme anger. Gatsby's eyes widened, and I began my tirade.

"How could you?! I fretted and cried and wailed and lost sleep, and all this time you've been ALIVE? I can't believe that I ever-"

I caught myself then, not yet willing to admit what I had been hiding from even myself until Gatsby's death. He looked at me, puzzled, and then a horrified expression came over his face.

"Oh no, Nick, Nick Nick Nick, you mustn't think I did this to hurt you. Why, I wanted to let you know at once, but Wolfsheim convinced me it would be better to disappear for a while, let the fuss die down. Please believe me that this was in NO way meant to cause you any distress. Why, you're the first person I've seen outside of nurses since I was shot. As soon as I was able to be out and about I immediately began looking for you. I had a feeling you'd moved back west, so it took a bit longer than I thought. But please Nick, please say you won't hate me for this… Please say you can forgive me?"

His pleading tone hit my ears, and a bit of my anger evaporated, but I was still not quite ready to accept everything. My mind was in turmoil, and I was not yet sure what I was going to do. To buy myself a bit of time, I spoke the only thing I had been wondering about the whole ordeal.

"Why did you do it? Why fake death? And, why risk dying by actually being shot?"

My voice was flat, and Gatsby could sense he was still not forgiven, so he hurriedly launched into his explanation, his voice sounding nervous and forcedly cheerful.

"Well, you see old sport, I didn't exactly plan to get shot. Just. It happened. And once it did, everyone thought I was dead, and I thought, well, is that such a bad thing? Because at that point it had finally become clear to me that Daisy didn't want me, and I felt like if I no longer had a chance with her then I saw no need to keep up my lifestyle. But I knew it would cause a big fuss if I just left, so, when I was shot, it was actually a blessing in disguise. I managed to get away with the help of my servant, and somehow got a hold of Wolfsheim, and I asked him if it would be possible for everyone to think I'd died. He said he would take care of everything, and apparently set up the funeral quite nicely. I then stayed at this little out of the way house recovering, and then when the nurses said I was good to go, I was surprised to find that the first person I thought of was not Daisy, but of you. So, I thought, well, we were friends before hand, right? So I thought I'd come out and see you. Just, you know. See how you're doing…"

His voice trailed off, and he seemed to take in for the first time my rumpled state and tear stained cheeks. His gaze softened, and he looked at me with real regret in his eyes. Wordlessly, he extended his hand to my face, and gently, ever so gently, brushed away the lone tear that was rolling down my cheek.

Our eyes met and held, and for a single moment in time, everything seemed to freeze. All of a sudden it seemed incredibly warm, and I felt my face beginning to flush. Gatsy spoke again, and this time his voice seemed rough, and unsure.

"You know. All this time I've been pining after Daisy because I couldn't have her. Then, while I was shot, I realized something. Maybe Daisy wasn't what I was looking for. Maybe, when I had you tag along with us, my mind, no, my heart, was trying to tell my something. Maybe it wasn't Daisy I wanted all along…"

With these words he closed the last few inches between our faces, and as our lips met softly for the first time, everything, all the pain, grief and tears, seemed to melt out of me and puddle on the floor, inconsequential.

I finally felt complete.