Do you know that sometimes it doesn't matter that dreams can never come true? I've come to a realization – and I will probably soon revert back to my former philosophies, but for now, I have a new belief (if it can be called that – what do I believe in, anyway?). I've just noticed how cracked and dry this cold weather makes my hands. It's as if they're threatening to break if I move them a certain way. No matter. They are of little use to me, anyway. What, with only serving the purpose of composing letters that the love of my life will never see. It's interesting, is it not? How easy it would be to throw this all away? But I could not bring myself to do it. Maybe only because of that one part of me that still childishly clings to the hope that you will someday read this. But then again, why would you? Why would you need to? You know me, right? Horridly ravaged by your existence; wallowing in the fetid waters of a love that never was, and I know never will be, mine? I am only a voice, after all. I am only a ghost for you. And it is not possible I could feel much more than regret for that; I only love you with what I am.
Well, no, dearest. I'm sorry, but no. I would not ever want to say it is so simple, even if it was. But you see, I'm a child. I'm completely ignorant in this realm of … what? Life? Is love part of life? Or is it something we make up? To think I made you up. To think God would allow me to destroy myself in such a way. What a sweet cruelty. Perhaps it is true, then. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you my dreams. Why? But you don't care; you can't care! But I did speak to you. Oh, god, I spoke to you. And for a moment, Christine, one moment, I swear I thought you cared. And I; I nearly fainted.
"You don't remember, do you." An accusation.
"Angel …" Oh, that silence you let linger. I will take with me to my grave the sweetness of your awed silence. I left you in stupefaction; do you know how terribly I've missed it? And what could I say! But my god, you were speaking to me; to me!
"Your voice," I begin to compliment you, though I am foolishly disappointed that your voice has thrived without me. You have thrived without me. I don't want to waste this moment drowning you in compliments. This is all too precious; too delicate. Think, fool!
"What do you regret?" I cry out. The words escape me mindlessly. I am so puerile. "What is it you regret most, Christine?" Somehow I know that time, our time, oh god, our sweet moment, is slipping away. And do I know when I will see you again? My hands quiver, and I feel ill. Answer me; please, answer me. Tell me there was a time when you thought I was something more. Tell me you're sorry we never made it. Tell me you wish it weren't so.
How terrified you look; poor child. What have I done to you? Did I yell at you; did I raise my voice? Did I stray too near? You are seized not by fear alone, but by the mere fact that you regret nothing. You are content; what more could you want? Dear lover, don't leave me here. But you can say nothing. I do wish you regretted something. I wish I could drag you down into this chaos with me, and I wish you knew no more innocence. This is the moment, the fleeting second, I have so longed for? It seems so much smaller than I had imagined.
You never answer because in he comes, and so I must retreat. I will not watch him kiss you again. I can no longer bear it, and for your sake, I suppress my jealousy. I resent the fact that you can regret for him – you regret you were ever away from him, you regret it took so long for your heart to find his, you regret his arms cannot be there endlessly to protect your fragile mind from intruders, like me. Why do you not regret anything between us? And by god, don't tell me there never was anything, because my instability is an open showcase of it every day. I love you, and I'm sorry you don't regret that you never loved me. I will eternally lament that, Christine.
But I tire. And so I have but one more thing to say; one more thing to offer you. You can never accept it because you will never know of it, and so any logic that may have existed here is gone. It didn't dwindle, it simply no longer exists. But I'm not leaving, dearest. Maybe you don't love me, but I will always be here. I can only ever love you, and that pains me as much as it does you. Does it pain you? I hope it does. Hate me then, if you won't love me. Hate me and make your best attempt to destroy me and my vulgarity because, quite frankly, your apathy makes me want to strangle you.
Would you be infuriated if I left you a bouquet of roses? Leaving one, and only one, at a time has become dull and you hardly blink anymore. Let me surround you in flowers. Let me tell you how many times I've said "I love you" knowing full well that you would never hear me. Let me hold you and whisper, "I know that somewhere there is a place in your heart for me."
I want you to regret it.