Unwell Подписаться

My love for her was absolute. It was indefinite.

She was everything.

She went quietly.

Sometimes I wish she hadn't.

Sometimes I wish she had screamed and cried, that she had shown some spite for the great injustice that was being done to her.

Though, maybe I did that enough for both of us.

Once while I was sitting by her bed, she turned her pale, tired, tearstained face toward me and whispered,

"I don't want to go."

I just said, "I know."

I wish I had said more that day, but I didn't know that day was going to be her last.

She only told me she was feeling a bit unwell.

Like I said, she went quietly.