When I started to write the book of us, I never thought I could reach chapter one. I’ve written pages and pages of how we fought, and ended our story in about eleven ways. But the one thing I can’t bring myself to do, is pen down an epilogue of how far we are from the promises we made.
I scratched into rough parchment, the most poetic of prologues, and spun a little bubble of madness down the highway of doom. It was a page of you and a page of me, the separate lines were begging to be read between. I spaced out my words carefully, keeping us apart right from the beginning. We came together in chapter twelve, page one hundred and three, line nineteen. I ran my ink stained fingers over a sentence of gaping words. I framed this in my clouded head a few times and read it out aloud a few more, but it never sounded the way it felt, until this is what I wrote – “He and I are now a we, but of us there’s still three- him, me and a ship sinking at sea.”
I knew it was grossly wrong to start a story with a disaster to expect, but if you knew it were to crash and bang, would you have ever gotten onto the Titanic? What is it about impending horror and an expectation for tragedy that makes the world read on and keeps the creators write on? And so, six chapters later, I brought in the Others. Them and secrets, lies and betrayal. Monsters were, as you can see, a relatively elegant design of destruction for what I had thought of us as; a rooted tree. Within your head, you kept me on a leash and left me to dream of a complete story. You were facile and complex, a web of childhood memories. So when I ended us in chapter twenty three, I knew you’d be unable to read any further than the pages of you demolishing me. The paradox lay deep within your head. Me and you versus an ‘us’.
And so I wrote the truth in the epilogue, the reluctant truth about a love so powerful and two people so weak, that one wrote a book of heartbreak and the other filled with such hate that he didn’t even weep.
I dedicated it to the me I wish I was, someone who was spinning little fairytales of faith and faint shyness. And in the end I say, you wish we were somewhat different from the wreck at an expressway. But we both know that if we did this again, in chapter one on page sixteen, I would never sit behind you and laugh at your reckless laughter, because it is regret that flows through my veins and not sorrow. Would you have never raised your hand to my cheek in ways of affection and in moments of ugly argumentative heat? I may just leave a few pages blank for everyone who reads, to write me a little letter of how they wish you and I had been.
But now that’s it done and it sits in front of me, six hundred pages of an inconvenient love story, I know this won’t ever go to press, you see. Because for the world to read of a dramatic tragedy, there is enough out there better than immature kids at school and a few years’ worth of anticlimactic history.