Wait.

Creative Writing Saturday! Never been shared before and all, though this is another old piece of writing. I swear I'll have something brand new next week. Anyway, without further ado, here's "Wait":

Wait.

You turn around. Words splutter out of my mouth like a dying motor. I pretend you're smiling, but I can still feel that you're not. I smile-- not out of joy, but out of fear that we may never smile again. Still, you do not smile. I can feel the weight of all the years pressing down against my chest, against my heart, against my lungs. I cannot breathe.

What? you finally ask. Your impatience stings like a fresh cut. Only a paper cut, I tell myself, but even paper cuts become hell after the nine thousandth time or so. It hurts, no matter how much I tell myself it doesn't.

I don't know, is all I can stupidly say. Because I don't.

Is that it? Are you done now? you ask, each word flung at me harder than the previous.

I just want to pretend this isn't happening, I say. And I know you're about to laugh-- but you don't. Somewhere underneath the stinging impatience, I see that I'm stinging you. Good, I want to think, but I can't. Bad, bad, bad!

But it is. Your voice aches.

Why? I want to shout. But I know why. I want so desperately to pretend this isn't. I want so desperately to ignore every glaring flaw, every mile-long misstep, every clear sign. I want so desperately to believe that this is temporary, that, soon enough, everything will, like magic, be fixed and you will be smiling again.

Can I go now? you ask. Your voice is impatient, but I know it is impatience to end the pain, not to begin it. This is the pain-- the parting, the goodbye. The infected limb is being cut off.
Yeah, I say, turning away. And I don't look back. You turn away too, and I know you do not look back. Because looking back would be suicide. Looking back would stop the amputation mid cut. Blood will gush out in floods, and you will be drained. I will be drained.

Each step away aches. But slowly, it will stop aching. This-- I know, you know, we know-- is the right path. This is the only path toward survival.

I do not fear we may never smile again-- I know. I will never look at you again, as tears of delirious joy cloud my vision, and smile. Nor will you ever smile at knowing I am with you either. This is the end, finale, completion. It does not matter why, for why will not change this. Why is useless.

And so I hold onto the last seconds, savour them, and watch the memories slowly die and fade from memory.