Wit. Wit. My love, my heart, where are you? You have left me to die? To rot? To mourn?
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As I stand by the window, the crisp air embraces my face; I inhale, I exhale. The elm trees in the distance sway slightly, a slow dance to the soft notes of the wind, with its intimate movements evoking those of two lovers in the fantasy of a dreaming romantic.
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Dusty air whooshes around my skin. Lightspheres chase my sleeves, sending illumination slithering across sandstone. Why do I bother? Hope has become as intertwined with my body as my heart; to rip hope away would be to rip my veins away with it. But that hope is what pumps blood through me, so I can’t resist its commands.
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Do you remember, dear, the autumn? We would read about humans and spirits and ghosts, letting our imagination run wild as we played make-believe. We’d pretend we were spirit detectives, solving cases involving beings of all kinds.
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The more I read your diary entries, the more I realise I’m in love with you. You come across as sassy and sarcastic, bubbly and energetic, quirky and illuminating. You come across as so colourful that you ensnared me long ago.
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‘I felt as though I were dead,’ Ruby said, tugging at a knot in her hair…
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He was sitting on the sofa with his guitar, strumming. A notebook was open on the desk and a fountain pen, lid off, lay on the blackened page…
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