“I still believe in love,” I told him, “but I don’t think I trust it anymore”.
He looked around, everything is of the future- moving in a blink, a click, or merely a touch. Yet he soon realized that all these were meant to preserve a time that’s gone by- memories made into memories again and again.
He was suddenly overcome with regret. He despised himself so easily, for we met too late and never early enough as to spare me the pain brought by the last time I truthfully loved.
He wished to take it away. Meant it.
“Nobody could”, I struggled and grabbed particularly those two words from my scattered thoughts.
“Too badly scarred. It has stopped beating- my heart, as to make the clocks you see, stop ticking ten minutes to Ten. I shall tell you the day death came to it was that wretched Friday. Along the terror of many. The sorrow mine and ours. I lived since to mourn for this life.”
I could not look at him. Even if my eyes shall allow me, I would not recognize his face. For I could only remember the face of one man, dear sweet Mr. Wen’s.
“He is but a figment of your memory. No more real than your continued grief.” He finally retorted.
“Today I feel as if I have had years in the company of old Miss A“, I told him eyes fixed on the huge screens surrounding the chamber. To their moment of destruction, they would repeatedly flash the same scenes- chronicling the day I first day I laid my eyes upon my lost love.
“Today, would be like any other day.”
“Well then, wake up my dear Miss ‘Ella”, he was so quick and sure with his words but could hardly speak them.
“Even if he comes back, he could no more ever be the same man.”
The images that fill my eyes are being washed away by droplets of fire, by the blazing waters.
“The truth could readily destroy our own little parcels of what we claim to be the world- made up in the mind or real as it can be touched”, I said as my share of that world came crashing down.
“The man you have loved is already and will be, throughout time ahead, from another lifetime.” This he told me in such cold, honest manner as my dear bright and hopeful man did when he bid goodbye in his short message on that fateful night of the eighth day.
I looked at the small device, the portal that once connected me to him, now lures me endlessly to our past, logs of daily correspondence and hours of conversing ’til it was morning. It finally went blank, as with every piece of glass that were once brimming with manufactured dreams.
“Goodnight.” I murmured as I slowly close my eyes, for words and memories, bloated remains and ashes of the world alike, vanish altogether into thin air like screens running out of power leaving nothing but an abyss of nothingness.