Write Him Back to Life

“I don’t want to write anymore,” she cried. She set her pen down and massaged her tired wrist.

“You know what happens when you stop,” he said quietly.

He never asked her for anything. But still, just looking at him as he turned pale and his contours slowly faded made her feel a pang of guilt. She didn’t want to disappoint him.

“I don’t want you to go,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

“I just need a little rest.”

“I know.”

He sat on the edge of her desk and she felt the weight of his eyes on her, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“You made it look so easy,” she blamed him.

Words always obeyed him. To him, writing was as natural as breathing. Until he ceased to breathe and made her the heir to his now dead words.

She wanted to tell him she didn’t want them, didn’t want the responsibility, but when she lifted her head, she found herself in an empty room. Again.

“How can I quit words without quitting you?”

She ran her fingers across the mess of letters in front of her.

You have to be patient, he once told her. They will listen to you.

She ripped out the page to start anew.

If she got the words right, she’d write him back to life.

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