Her Novel

She is met with a quiet that tugs on her languid eyelids, which break to meet his waiting above her.

“I’m so tired,” she whispers, voice frail, cracking.

He nods, forcing a smile upon his dampened cheeks.

“I know, my love.”

He drags his red hand up to her hair, brushing it out of her face.

That face.

That face that echoed the most beautiful laugh in the world.

That face that wrinkled and bent under its own smile.

That face that he felt so lucky to call his.

That face slowly draining of color, draining of her.

“Is it okay if I rest for awhile?” she asks so innocently.

That face that he fell so desperately in love with.

She asks for permission to go, and with a sob, he gives it.

Her eyes pull closed

and so does her novel.

He flips through the pages, searching and scanning every inch of the binding for any sign that this isn’t the end of her story, but no matter how many times he checks, there’s nothing.

His eyes burn into the final words: The End.

His book is much longer than hers, he realizes. He has more chapters to fulfill; a plot to complete.

The painful truth is that she is no longer a character.

And so, with one last kiss pressed to her cooling forehead, he continues on their path alone

and she embraces the most peaceful rest she’s ever had.