Not Done

Outside I could hear the ringing of bells as somewhere a clock struck on the hour. I didn't know the time and I didn't count the bells. Each ding, ding, ding of the bell coursed through my soul. I breathed heavily, my mind hadn't been quite hit yet with that sudden pang, that regret. I was dreading the moment, the second to which it would overcome me.1

Only a few yards in front of me lay an oak coffin, with her body inside. I hadn't walked up to look at her yet, nor did I want to. I loved her, but my deepest regret was never doing something about it. Yet, she had left me, chosen me to say what she couldn't. 2

"You wanted to be a writer once," she had whispered into my ear, "you aren't terrible."3

She was the only person that had kept faith in me, when everyone else had lost it. I think she was the only person who still had faith in anything. I loved her, and I know, that she loved me too. We just weren't able to fully embrace that love, what we had, it would have been special.4

At least I seemed to think so.