Love Story
Title: Love Story
Author: Winking Tiger
Date: June 14, 2002; edited December 1, 2002
Disclaimer: No infringement intended. This is a creative project, no money is being made.
Summary: When the years have passed by and the cold encompasses you, what are you truly left with—beyond yourself?
Author's Notes: "Chapter 4" of this piece will be simultaneously posted with this, "Chapter 3"—in that in reality it will only be the lyrics used with this part. With that posting, the end of this piece will have occurred. Thank you, everyone and I hope you've enjoyed!
I must acknowledge that this piece would not exist without the help and support from my faithful friend Jade. Her constant support and insistence to continue this piece with another portion to showcase Logan and his contribution to the story is the only thing that contributed to the true making of this. Also, I feel the need to thank, profusely, the Grammar Queen, as usual, you're amazing and all your input and effort has been just priceless!
All the words are my own, all mistakes are mine alone.
Be good and leave feedback once you're done.
The light shone into the room. The setting sun's rays just barely reached the lone inhabitant. His sleeping figure gradually began to move; the subtle signs of life coming back into the body. Alive from the death of slumber he had been in, the moments lurched on. He moved over in the large bed, turning his head to the adjacent pillow. His eyes took in the familiar sight. The smile on his lips was purely reflexive—he wouldn't be able to stop it if he wanted to. Her face greeted his warm smile with one of her own and his heart grew with every second, millisecond, nanosecond, every moment.
No matter how much he may have desired that his eyes would stop lying to him once again, this day was no different than another other. There was no loving smile, no beautiful face, or body. She was a mirage, a figment of his imagination. He was alone, in the bed, in the room, in life. While his heart was possessed by another, his life was just as lonely as the pillow beside him—always unoccupied and never used.
His greeting was only received by the pillow into which he beamed at. "God, I miss you Max," he uttered in a desperate whisper. Speaking freely, an oral compilation of inner thoughts, he continued. "After all this time, I can still feel you, see you, imagine you here—with me. Is it too out of line if I said that I still miss you, even now? Would it matter to you, where ever you are?" Instead of quickly waking, returning to the world of the living, one must be conscious and awake to be a participant of the living world, he slowly sank back to the death—the darkness—that was always close. Just out of reach, but always close enough to take hold when there's no other road to take. "It's been too long, it's been too hard," he whispered while adjusting the sheet up and over his head.
Sleep avoided him, no matter the effort. He continued to himself, muffled by the sheets. "What the hell am I supposed to do with myself, today?" The decision was ever present, its unresolved status looming all around him. Visibly shaken, weak, and broken, he was on the edge—feet barley on the ground, about to plummet down. He spoke to the face that had graced his waking eyes, "And I still miss you. I still love you." So close, teetering so close, just about to—"Minutes, hours, a few days, a few months, the years that really have gone by. Oh god, I never stopped loving you Max, never," was the last he was able to get out before falling violently, into the dark recesses that waited. Seconds, days, hours—time—passed by. It still hurt, "it'll always hurt," he mumbled on his way out—once the ability to move, once again, was a newfound, and bittersweet, freedom. And eventually, he began to overcome the pain.
Not over, and past, the edge completely, he made the decision. Painful as it was, he took the option to go to the one place that never stopped haunting him. "One of many," he'd mumbled while pulling up the drive. Up on the driveway, he parked the car and made his way inside.
Turning the key in the lock, steeling himself to entering, he had neglected to brace himself against the cold that surrounded him. Instead of the silence, the dead emptiness, that he had awaited to greet him, he felt the warmth that surrounded and exuded from the cabin. The ability to move, once again, was faltering, but he refused to let fear stop him. He made his way, quietly walking through, observing the differences between his mind's image and what his current surroundings were.
At first he feared that this was just another lie courtesy of the same cruelty he'd faced earlier that day. Then, after shaking his head and reassuring that this was anything but a dream, he began truly inspecting reality. His mind had worked him up to expect a lost stranger, seeking warmth and shelter. A roof and fire to combat the winter would be a dream come true to most. But … no, he wouldn't have anything easy. Surely not as easy as what he'd expect, of anything.
Though in his wildest dreams, never had he imagined the possibility of this, was this another false reality. Her, she—Max—was actually there. Instead of some unreachable dream image there was now something reachable, tangible, just outside of his grasps. He was unable to hide the shock, so much time and distance, so much. And now she was right in front of him—the expression on his face changed from shock to pure joy, excitement—trepidation. There was just much too much running through his mind in such a short period of time—just a few brief seconds. Able to lean himself against the nearby corner, he tried to steady himself once more.
Instead, his world was changed once again, with hearing her say, "I loved him … I love him." His ears were bursting with the shattering and explosion of his mind—his world, his walls. Everything had changed.
She must have expected the cabin to be occupied by only one as well. Those were words not to be heard but by her own ears. Love and joy—how full of joy and love he was to have heard them, those amazing words. Her voice—her proclamation—wasn't only heard by her own ears. Instead, he listened to her while leaning against his new source of strength, the wooden frame. He listened to her words, stared at her face—at the face he'd longed for, thought of, been haunted by for so long. And now, his face was giving way to the smile that grew as the flames ignited. She had an audience, a captive audience—if by nothing else than by just her presence. This time, it wasn't just a Ghost Story. Instead, it was a Love Story.
And he was determined for this to be a Love Story that would continue, with its very own Happily Ever After.
"Max," he whispered, unsure if even she would hear him. "I love you too. I never stopped—caring for you, loving you—I never stopped."
To keep what is sacred, what is truth—what is beyond truth, certain things must be omitted. Because sharing some things, does not make them better. Instead, it can ruin things of such a great importance and that are held to be so special in the hearts of those from the moment itself. Instead of divulging such, one may infer what occurred. There are some things that are beyond words, though they are spoken, and beyond the body. Instead they are of a greater thing than all else. You may decide yourself, on this, and instead take the following. Such an occurrence of love transpired between the two.
And when all was said and done, that night, it was most definite that a Love Story was taking place. And the words "I miss you" barely covered a thing.
But somehow, three other words did cover mostly everything. Those three words surrounded and overcame everything, everyone, and neither of the two complained. "I Love You"