The Coffee Has Gone Cold
My eyes burn. It hurts like hell, but I cannot stop looking. I do not want to stop looking.
Aikawa is sitting by my side. Silent, concerned. Not spewing endless heaps of anger-fueled demands anymore. She knows that I cannot do it. She knows it will not change anything.
I am sitting at my computer. I look over the rim of my dirty glasses (the fingerprints make it impossible to look through them) at the screen. Nothing but a white blank page, every writer's greatest enemy. And even through my hatred I keep looking, like I am waiting for something to happen. Like the words will magically appear on the screen.
I am an idiot.
No story writes itself. It is the writer who is in charge of bringing it to life, of making the required decisions. We are as much the protagonist of our own story as we are the writer. We make decisions and suffer the consequences. Sometimes we meet people and then they become a part of our story too. And when we meet someone new, two stories intertwine.
Love is like a pair of wedding rings. It connects the stories of people's lives until death do them part or they find love with another. The rings are not the same object, but share similarities. They belong together like the people who wear them.
Marriage is overrated. Wedding rings can be thrown into the trash bin. Vows mean nothing if they do not come straight from the heart. Everything is just for show, it is meaningless. I would not want to put my love into a small piece of jewelry when there are so many other ways to prove my eternal commitment.
There were many ways, now there are none.
Writers are not almighty. Some things are beyond our control. We cannot do anything to stop it and when it strikes, it leaves a deep scar that takes forever to heal. We do not mean for it to happen, but still it does.
When Misaki left this morning I could not have foreseen any of this. I thought it was a day like any other. We ate breakfast together, he went off to work and I almost got butchered by Aikawa. I did not expect to have her pity me.
The brightness of the screen is too straining. Now my head is starting to hurt too. Great.
I turn my head to escape the light. The mug that Misaki brought to my office this morning is still standing on my desk. The coffee has gone cold, but the smell is still strong. I have not been able to take a sip since I heard the news. That coffee is the last thing Misaki gave me, so I want to treasure it while I can.
His story may be over, but I will continue it. And it will be the last story I will ever write.
