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Chapter 38

John didn't know what to do. Go after her? No, Clara wouldn't listen to him, not like this. Call her? As if she would pick up. He only knew that he couldn't lose her, not over something like this. Clara had it all wrong, she misunderstood, and John was determined to show her the truth, so he pulled up the chair and sat down at his laptop. If Clara didn't listen, all that was left was to show her the truth.

So John sat down and started writing. He wrote it all down from the day they met up until the point he had felt like the happiest man on earth – last night. He would prove it to her and he would write and he would write it well. Clara would see, surely she would.

When the evening came around and John was starting to feel hungry, he rose from his office chair and walked into the kitchen, preparing a quick meal before he went back to his computer. His eyes hurt and his back was in dire need of rest, but he wasn't finished yet. He wouldn't stop before every word was at the right place. John would finish it, not matter how long it took.

Clara had hardly slept at all last night and her restlessness has driven her out of bed as early as seven on a Sunday morning, just so she wouldn't have to be alone with her thoughts. She wished that there was someone she could call, but her grandmother had gone away over the weekend and there was no reception wherever she was right now. And she couldn't bother Amy either, not when she was so busy with the move this weekend. Besides, Clara knew what they would say. They would tell her to forget about it, but how could she ever forget about a betrayal like this? He had used her as subject for his book, he had used her grief and her feelings for him without showing even the smallest sign of remorse. Clara could never forget that.

What she truly needed was a distraction, so Clara decided to take a shower and prepare a breakfast that she wouldn't eat. She wasn't hungry, she just needed something to do. However when she was just about to pull the teabag out of her mug Clara heard the door bell ring.

With a heavy sigh she walked towards the door with everything intention to send away whoever was in front of it, but she was greeted by a sight she hadn't expected.

John was standing in front of her doorstep, unshaven, his hair ruffled, shirt buttoned up the wrong way and he looked as if he had gotten even less sleep than Clara herself.

"What do you want?" she demanded angrily.

John held a stack of paper in her direction. "I want you to read this," he said.

Clara exhaled sharply and leaned against the door frame. "No, thanks, I think I've read enough of that filth."

"What you read was my diary," John told her plainly, staring straight at her and for a short moment Clara even believed him. He seemed quite sincere. But it wasn't the truth and she knew it.

"Those women at the publishing company knew my name. So they read it, too. So it can't be your diary," she argued, "Is there anything else before I slam this door in your face?"

"Please," John whispered, holding the stack up a little higher, "I've started a new novel, which is about the last 75 pages of this stack, and I've named the protagonist after you. I didn't want you to see it before it was finished. I would've asked you whether you were okay with the name before publishing it and if not we can still change it. Clara, please, believe me, what you found yesterday was my diary. It was never meant to be published."

"It looked like a novel to me," Clara raised her voice at him, "It had everything a novel should have. How could that be your diary?!"

John lowered the papers in his hands and closed his eyes, inhaling sharply before he spoke. He seemed almost desperate. "I am a writer, Clara, writing is a what I do. When I met you and I was confused. I didn't know what to do with these feelings, so I wrote them down to clear my head. This is all of it," he nodded towards the papers in his hands, "This is all you need to know about me, everything I've done and everything I've thought since I met you. This stack of paper is me. Please, read it."

He dropped the stack in her hands before Clara even had a chance to decline. Two options: throw it at him or keep it?

"If you don't call, I'll know that you no longer want anything to do with me. Not everything in there is particularly nice, but this is who I am," he said with a sigh and turned around to leave.

"John-" Clara called after him, but when he looked at her she suddenly felt lost for word. She had no idea what to say to him. When she failed to speak he simply nodded and walked back downstairs.

Armed with only her cup of tea Clara sank down on the sofa, the stack of paper heavy on her tights. If she read it, she he was telling the truth. . .

Clara went through the stack first and eventually found the part where his novel started. It didn't have a title yet, but there was her name as the protagonist and before Clara knew it she had dived deep into the story of a young, feisty and very beautiful journalist who accidentally found herself in the middle of a puzzle surrounding a man's murder. When Clara had turned the last page and there was nothing left to read, she cursed John a little for having brought her his unfinished work that conveniently stopped at the most thrilling plot twist. Damn him!

Now her eyes fell on the other half of the stack that was his diary. Clara had caught glimpses of it on his laptop and suddenly she felt overcome by guilt for having read it at all. She shouldn't have done that. She shouldn't have snooped around his private files just to satisfy her own curiosity. She had had no right to do that, despite her suspicion that he was writing a novel about her. Clara hadn't trusted John and now he was placing the ultimate trust in her by giving her his diary to read.

Clara swallowed and pulled out the very last page to read it.

I didn't want to sleep, even though the exhaustion had long caught up with me. Instead I wanted to hold on to this perfect moment just a little longer, hold on to Clara who was sleeping in my arms, probably dreaming about the beautiful future we could have together. It was then that I realized I wanted it all, it was then that I could answer all of her questions. I would love her better than any man ever could, I would make her happy, not because she deserved it, but because that was the only thing I ever truly wanted in life. Clara had asked me about children earlier that day, about settling down, and now I knew the answer to it. Of course. Why shouldn't there be children in our future some day? The thought about it scared me senseless, but hopefully I would still have some time to learn. Somehow it felt as if there was nothing I couldn't do as long as Clara was by my side.

In a way Clara saved me without ever knowing that she had. I understand now why this new heart has always felt strange to me, why there was a hole that could never be filled, no matter how hard I tried to get my old life back. The heart beating inside my chest has never belonged to me, not for a single moment. This heart has always belonged to Clara Oswald. I owe my life to her and it will never be complete again without her.

Clara wiped a tear from her face and cleared her throat as she placed the page aside, knowing that she didn't even need to read the rest of it. She didn't need to know everything about it, good or bad. All she ever needed to know was on that last page.