I watched you day after day. You collapsed on the sofa in my basement and just cried. You told me how much you wanted someone to love you, and I was hurt. I loved you more than anyone else ever could. I gave every spare emotion and minute of time I had to listen to you and your woes.
I thought you knew.
I thought you would've noticed.
But no. I just sat there and watched you sob.
Eventually, I reached a point where I couldn't take it any longer. I took your hand and looked you in the eyes. It was that moment that I told you everything . . . how I had watched you grow more than I watched myself, how your eyes sparkle in natural light, and then, of course, my feelings for you.
You took that opportunity to kiss me.
Deep inside, I felt something melt. At the time, I wasn't sure if it was my heart or my sense of reason. I found out later that it was both.
We spent many long hours in that basement, even though it was almost unbearably cold in the winter. It was our refuge from the rest of the cruel world. We shared kisses, tears, and words. You were never good with words (you admitted it yourself), but you knew that I was. You'd sit and listen to my writing day in and day out. You started calling me "little scribe".
One day, you turned to me and asked, "Little scribe, why is your writing always sad?"
I thought for a while before simply answering, "Because there's nothing happy for me to write about."
"Do I not count?"
I wondered for a moment if I should laugh off your comment. I don't know why, really . . . I guess it just seemed unreal. But I knew not to laugh when your eyes stopped shining and your face turned pale. You were serious.
"I guess you do."
That was the only time I ever lied to you. Truthfully, you didn't make me feel happy, you made me feel loved. I needed you not for the smile, but indeed for the undeniably irresistible kiss. I lied to you because I said what both of us needed to hear.
After that little bump in the road, everything seemed fine with a figurative capital "F" and italics.
And then came the inevitable decline.
You came to school one day with a giant, obvious bruise on your arm. I asked you about it, but you ignored me. After years of knowing you, I was sure that something was wrong. You refused to answer my innocent question because you were afraid to say that you weren't okay.
Afternoons in the basement became long and painful. You had no color in your face and you shook uncontrollably. I felt your fear and your sadness whenever I looked at you.
My heart bled for you and my eyes cried for you, but I don't think I ever truly understood what you were going through. I didn't know the pain you felt, besides the bruises and cuts that were plainly visible to me. I invited you over less and less. I was so confused and selfish. I pushed you away because I couldn't stand to share your pain like I had for such a long time. I'm sorry. I wanted to heal you so badly, but I just didn't know how.
One night, I stayed up far past three in the morning. I wrote you a sincere, heartfelt love letter. I was hopeful that it would help you feel better.
As your eyes scanned the page, you shook and cried. You set the paper down.
Once more, I asked you if you were okay. You told me you were. I believed you . . . it was what I wanted to hear, and you knew that. Little did I know at the time, that would be the last I would ever see you in the basement.
You sighed, "I love you."
Then you left.
I saw you once more after that. It was at your funeral. You lay there in your coffin with a folded paper in your hands. I asked your mother about it, and she snarled slightly when she said, "He wanted to be buried with it."
It was the letter I wrote. I knew if I unfolded it and read it, I'd find that it was signed, "Little Scribe."
Your mother also didn't seem overly unhappy when she told me you committed suicide. It was then that I realized that I was the only one who loved you. I was not enough to keep you in this world.
I should've seen it coming, though. You went through some incredibly tough times. The scary part to me is that I watched it all happen.
Your death was by your own hand, so maybe you deserved your self-inflicted wounds. I'm sorry that I'm so selfish when I say that I didn't deserve the pain you brought me, but I was in love with you. A person will only truly fall in love once, and I used up my chance on you. Now there's no one else who is going to patch up my broken, bleeding heart.
But you know me. Someday I may forgive, but I will never forget.
