FicWad

His life walked out on him, claiming it was for the best, claiming she still loved him - that she would always love him, always - but it was in his best interest that she had to leave. She claimed he would never live if she stook around, he might not realize at first, but eventually, he'll hate her for it. His words, his pleas, denials, and declares of affection fell on deaf ears. . . or maybe on ears that never truly cared. The more he tried, the more she stepped away.
"You don't know what you're doing!" He cried, standing next to her, close but yet so far away.
She smiled, the smile that he always believed he'd die for. The smile he'd still die for. Maybe the smile that might end up killing him. She shook her head slightly. "I know exactly what I'm doing; you just don't see it. I love you, which is why I'm letting you go," her voice was steady.
His hurt finally gave way to rage, as if an internal dam gave way. Tears slid down his cheeks, the same cheeks that will never again feel her hands or her lips. He blieved he had it all figured out, it was so obvious.
"Bullshit! You've never loved me! All that time we spent together, it was all a lie! I should have known from the start no one could ever love me. Fu-"
Her lips covered his, effectively shutting him up. His mind swam, raged against itself, confused and disoriented.
"Shut up," she said quietly. "You know that's not true. I loved you from the start. The time we spent together were the best days of my miserable life," she backed away again, just out of arms' reach.
"If they were the best," he said, quietly as he shook, holding back the full force of his tears, "Why are you destroying them by doing this?"
"I'm not destroying them. I have them right here," she tapped her temple with an index finger. "They're going to keep me alive, and I hope they do the same for you."
"I can't believe this is happening," he mumbled, looking into her pretty eyes. He'll never see them again, he's so completely sure of it. He'll never see any of her again, not ever. "I always imagined we'd be together forever. We'd have kids; we'd be happy."
"It would never work, and you know it," she repeated, kindly. Her eyes were tearless.
A black truck rumbled up to where the two were standing, crunching over the gravel lot. They both realized it was there, but neither looked away from each other.
"That's my ride," she said gently.
"Promise to call me," he begged.
"I have your number," she responded. She was evading.
"Promise you'll call me, just to tell me you're alright," he repeated. He looked into her eyes as he said it.
"I promise," she said. "I have to go," she hugged him one final time, slipping something into his pocket. "I'll always love you."
He hugged her back, almost unable to let go. "And you have my love," he whispered.
And just like that, she left, and he was left to stand there. He found it hard to believe that she had ever been there in the first place. As if the space had always been there, empty and suppressive. Everything was suddenly washed away from that one final act. She was nothing more than a fairy tale gone wrong.
His tears landed on the gravel. He suddenly found it hard to breathe without her at his side. His mind raced, he wondered whether it was possible to die from a broken heart. He could already see it; his corpse, peaceful, dead, cold, the coroner writing on his form: "Death by emotion." It could happen, of course it could. He fell to his knees and sobbed silently, feeling as if he was drowning. He was sure he'd die right there. And he didn't care. He was empty, completely used up. He wondered whether he actually had anything to give in the first place, and if he did, it was just stripped away in one fatal swoop.
He was a shell, void and completely hollow. He could finally breathe, gasping for air, and he screamed in the failing twilight, screamed his heart out. He wanted to scream until his lungs collapsed, scream until he stopped hurting, even if that meant death. His screams did not last long, however. He started to sob openly, and it required all the air he could take in. His trembling hands went to the pocket he felt something within, something she had snuck inside.
He unfolded the paper, and in her careful handwriting, the handwriting he would never see again. The very same handwriting that wrote the note that explained how she'd die without him a month ago. Her words were careful, clean, showing obvious effort.
It read:
"This number will always be open for you to call it, but only three times. After the third call, it will no longer be avaliable. You better make those last three calls worth it."
And then she signed her name, along with a number he never knew she had. He had an urge to crumple it up and leave it there, but another urge to call her right then and there, and yet another to wait to call her. He couldn't decide. His tears stained the letter.
In the end, he pocketed the letter after staring at it for an extended period of time, on his knees in the gravel parking lot. He was empty of everything except pain, guilt, and a sense of betrayal. He felt stupid. He wondered why he fell for her. He answered himself the next second: she was just that great. He wondered what she saw in him. Again, he answered himself in the next second: nothing at all. He was nothing to her, as she just showed. It was awhile later he finally was able to get up off his knees and walk home, to avoid the urge to jump in front of every car that passed him.


Years later, he called her, and she answered.