Dear Lea,
My best
friend is dying. He is lying in a hospital bed, and I can't be there
beside him. That's what's killing me. I'm sitting in an apartment simply
waiting to hear he's gone and I can't do anything about it, I can't
hold his hand, I can't tell him I love him, I can't see his smile one
last time... My best friend is dying, and I am sitting here, hundreds of
miles away, wishing I could ease his pain or steady his breathing or
sing him to sleep or touch his face as he drifts away from me. I wanted
to be there when he went. So that I can know that he's alright. If he
dies and the next time I see him is lying in a coffin; it won't seem
real, it won't seem right. Seeing a face that's never been
peaceful, lying there, motionless. It's hard to grasp. It's hard to
accept. I don't know how to accept this.
Sitting here, in a pale
tan apartment, waiting to hear that he got his wings... and his lungs.
His lungs which failed him, his lungs which couldn't breath. Those
cursed, stupid lungs. I'd have given him my own, but that wasn't
plausible. Besides, he'd never have allowed it. He's stubbourn that way.
And so are those lungs. Always filling with fluid, and now, just plain
weak. I wish he'd been given a better set of lungs. Then I could have
had him beside me forever.
He loved me you know. He really did. He
said so himself, and that's not something he'd just say. He loved me.
That way that people love each other when love is real. The kind of love
that meant that when I said I didn't feel the same, he accepted it,
because he knew it was better for me. The kind of love that makes me
feel like an absolute dick for not loving him back. I wished I could
have made him smile more. Wish I could have helped him more.
The
truth is, he was always there for me. The truth is, he always cared. He
offered to kill the men who hurt me. He offered to hold me when I cried.
He made me smile when I wanted to hit people. He helped me become the
woman I am.
I can only hope that I had some small impact on his
beautiful life. His soul made such a dent on mine, I hope I made a
scratch on his.
Because the truth is, I do love him. Maybe not in
that way. But that doesn't make my love for him any less than a great
love. He was my best friend and as I wait for the phone call that tells
me that he's gone, I wish I could be with him to hold his hand and to
know that he's safe.
I love him.
I love you,
Sarah
