Antilove

Epilogo

THERE WAS NO HOME FOR ROSE to return to. She never did like her place in Los Angeles. In fact, she never did like the city to begin with. Instead, she took a cab from the airport straight to a place she can only describe as familiar. More so than her own address.

    It wasn't too far from her house but in the recent weeks, it had been distant in her memory, even though she had told herself to never return—not to a place unwelcome and a place she already deserted. It seemed that her resolution crumbled on her flight home and feelings of want and curiosity pushed her in one direction.

    It was a matter that had been weighing on Rose's mind for a while and while nothing had changed in the place she once considered home, Rose felt that it was necessary to investigate the shift she felt since her dinner with Lucifer and Lucien. Though life persisted as usual and there was nothing unordinary in the small corner of the world Rose was in, a drop in the atmosphere told her there was someone for her to talk to.

    She found herself at a place where the light always reached—the setting sun casted long shadows across the sidewalk, an informal invitation into a driveway Rose knew too well.

    The exterior had changed accordingly with the season and the flowers in the potted plant by the doorsteps no longer bloomed. She knocked three times, breath bated, and wondered if it was—if even possible—audacious of her to show up with a suitcase in tow. There were faint circles under her eyes but they were not from lack of sleep.

    There was a rustling indoors that alerted her to signs of life between what stood in front of her and what was behind.

    It was what can only be described as a homecoming that they both felt themselves was only right after all their years of knowing one another. Goodbyes between two longterm friends were never, never final and never conclusive. An embrace was found and she realized that in her wake, Rose had left Alex utterly alone.

    Alexander Lee opened the door for Rose Kaufman.

    A letter was read under his roof.

Rose,

I'm beginning this letter with a sentiment I believe we both share: how sorry is it that what we had will remain unrealized, tender and budding but never nurtured. I have to keep this brief, given my obligation to your last wish. Liminal spaces leave no answers but I'll answer you here. If you are disappointed in me, I can understand why you'd want to cut our visit short. I can defy nature but Lucifer is another force—we operate under strict principles that do not exclude the manner in which time moves.

There are many wishes I wish I could have fulfilled too, even if you think I seemingly have everything and simultaneously, desire nothing. For one, I wish I could hand you this letter myself but I'll be gone once you read this, at least I hope so. For another, I believe love is never found in an open hand and yet I find that I don't want this notion to be cemented in your own outlook of life.

We met at a tumultuous time in your life and sometimes I think my presence only provoked the dormant fire you had kept within yourself. I don't doubt that it still lies in your heart, the flames that kept warm our time together. By the time you choose to read this, perhaps weeks after you've kept this, things will have settled down for you. Promises of a better future are hard to keep but a devil's word is set in stone. Under no circumstance will incidents arise in which you lose what you have gained and I hope you can trust me on this.

I leave you my writing as a last sign of my memory, if one day you wake up and no longer think of me or the details of who I am become unclear to you. As we fundamentally are, we look to be remembered.

Italy is beautiful in the spring as well. Take care.

Yours truly,

L