Today, an angel came into my room. It was the first time in years I had seen him. He wordlessly walked in and sat on my bed and started stroking my hair. His face was emotionless. He sat there stoking my hair for I don't know how long, and I just lied there. I couldn't move because of my really bad fever but if I was able to I would hug him tightly and never let go. I miss him so much. I watched him until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer and fell asleep. When I woke up next morning he was gone.
The following night the same thing happened; He walked into my room and sat on my bed. But before he started stroking my hair he kissed my forehead. And just like the day before; I watched him until I couldn't say awake any longer.
The third night he kissed my both forehead and my cheeks before stroking my hair.
It's unfair, really. He could kiss me but I couldn't kiss him. It was because I can hardly move. His kisses were feather light, I could barely feel them. And his strokes were also feather light, but very soothing.
The fourth day I started to recover from the fever, but only a little bit. I spent the day lying in bed, thinking about him. His smile, his unusual but beautiful eyes, his hair, his... everything. I miss him so.
The night came and so did he. He walked over to the bed and kissed my forehead, my cheeks and my nose before stroking my hair. And because I had recovered a bit I was able to stay awake a bit longer.
The fifth day I recovered a little bit more. He did the same as the night before but also kissing my lips before stroking my hair. His lips were cold against mine. I wonder if it was because of the cold weather outside... Just moments before I fell asleep I whispered "I love you". Right before my eyes closed I saw a glimpse of him smiling, but he also looked a little bit sad. I wonder why...
The sixth day was almost back to normal. He didn't come that night. Nor did he come the night after that, nor the night after that.
After three days I began to think that he wouldn't come back. Just before I closed my eyes, he stood in the doorway. He looked sad. He waved before walking away. I could hear his steps fade into the night as I lied there, unable to move just like the first night. Except for the fact that I wasn't sick.
After that he didn't come back.
A few months passed since I last saw him and it's the anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall. The day he creased to exist.
The day Gilbert Beilschmidt died, along with my heart.
