"It's not over tonight,
just give me one more chance to make it right,
I may not make it through the night,
I won't go home without you."
For about the ten-thousandth time, I unfolded the little piece of paper and read these words over and over again. The tears started flowing as my trembling fingers traced the fold marks that scarred the surface the words had been scribbled on, messily, but thoughtfully. For one year, six months, 22 days, and 14 hours this paper had been either in my hand or pocket. For one year, six months, 22 days and 14 hours, I had very often unfolded this small piece of paper to make sure the words were still there; to make sure the words still meant something and to make sure he was still with me; he always was. He had always loved me, and he would always love me. He had slipped me this note with a smile on his face and a promise on his lips 6 years after I met him, 4 years since I had become his best friend and 2 years after I had fallen in love with him. And for six months, 22 days and 14 hours his love reached me from this tiny slip of paper.
***
He had kissed me, ever so softly, on that beautiful summer day. He had laughed as he promised that he would be back soon. I had grabbed him when he stood up and told him I loved him. He had leaned in to kiss me again. He had whispered, "I love you," in my ear and then he had walked out of my bedroom door. I had watched him with a smile on my face. I had laughed. I had been happy. Little did I know this feeling would not return to me for quite a long time. Little did I know how much I was taking for granted. Little did I know that when he walked out of my bedroom door, this chapter in our lives had just ended.
He had called me a day later. He had told me he wanted to see me. I happily agreed. I had not suspected that anything was wrong. I had pulled up to his house at 5:16, and I had smiled as I walked up to his front door. His mom had opened the door. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she didn't even make an attempt, though she usually did, to smile at me. She just looked at me. She just let me into the house. She did not say a word to me. She did not warn me. I smiled at her lamely and then walked on the route that I knew so well: down the left hallway, through the second door on the right, into his bedroom.
He was sitting on his bed. He was staring blankly at the wall. He did not look at me, though I was sure he knew I was there. I sat down on his bed and reached out my hand to touch him. He flinched away violently, and his eyes seemed to widen as though he was just thrust back into reality. He looked straight at me for a moment, a moment that seemed like forever. He opened his mouth to speak and whispered weakly, "It's over."
My mouth thrust open so violently I felt as though my jaw had nearly dislocated. I could not mutter an intelligible word and only the sound of "Wha?" escaped from my lips.
"It's over," he repeated in a slightly stronger voice.
"I... What? No! Why?" my mouth sputtered a quivering voice, like a leaking faucet, and my tear ducts followed the example.
I angrily slapped the tears off of my cheeks, but it was no use as they began to flow harder. He just looked at me. His expression so defeated that it was nearly emotionless. I wiped my eyes again with the back of my hand as anger and misery built up inside of me. I stood up and gave him the most disgusted look I could muster. This was so wrong. How could he be so callous? My anger dissolved just as quickly as my expression. My stomach was sloshing wetly. I felt incredibly sick. My chest was constricting tightly, and tears were burning my eyes, blocking all vision. His emotionless expression fell from his face and misery replaced it. His usually sparkling blue eyes were so clouded with despair; I could barely stand looking at them. He looked down at the comforter on his bed, looked back up at me.
