• WAIT.

    I need you to listen for just a second, even if it means putting down your pencil and climbing out of the trance you have settled into, a state of mind where erasers are not needed and everything is perfect the first time you say it. I warn you in advance, I will not sound perfect the first time I say this. But I need you to listen, to tune your pulse into the frequency of the heartbeat I am sending you over airwaves. I need you to understand, even though my hands are trembling, my mind is unraveling, and my words are stumbling, tripping, falling flat on their faces. I'll start by stating the facts: Yes, I heard you telling your mother you're never going to talk to me again out in the hall. Yes, I know you are justified in being angry with me. And yes, your absence is driving me insane.

    Are you still there? I hope that is your breath I hear and not just static. Please, just listen. I can't stand the idea that you're not still there.

    I don't know where to start, but starting isn't even the biggest challenge. I think the biggest challenge is admitting to myself that no matter where I begin, it won't change the ending. No matter what order I tell events in, this still isn't a fairy tale. This is my life, this is your life, this is where they collide, like strangers milling about a silent room. This isn't one story of "meant to be," this is two stories that merge briefly and then split again. This is what wasn't meant to be.

    I remember you and I remember me. More importantly, I remember you and me. It seems like I never existed before I knew you, maybe because I didn't—you were there when I was so little, when we chased fireflies through calliope nights into the dawn. Ghost stories, games of tag, camping in the living room within a fortress of blankets and pillows. That was where you first introduced me to your fairy tale: "It's one I'm still writing, it's about you and me, and we grow up and live happily ever after together." You were beautiful to me, even back then with your knobby, grass-stained knees and your missing front tooth and your choppy bangs that I knew you cut yourself. In spite of all of your imperfections, or perhaps even because of them, you were the most beautiful girl in the world. You still are. And in your eyes, I was a handsome prince who was going to swoop by one day on a white horse and carry you away into that wild unknown, "forever."

    I remember being in sixth grade and walking to school with you the first day of middle school. You cried when someone started making jokes about your braces, and I got suspended from school for the first time in my life by punching him. Later on in middle school, your braces came off, and you were happy because it meant you could smile with your mouth open. I kissed you for the first time a little while later. Do you remember that? Do you remember in high school, at junior prom, all those years later? You were the most beautiful girl there, and I was the skinny little geeky kid who was head-over-heels in love with you.

    Do you remember that night? You were running your fingers down the ridges of my back, observing: "You're so skinny. I can count your ribs." Later that night, you muttered in your sleep about how if you count every breath you'll run out of fingers, just like counting stars. I was still lying next to you with my arms around your body, but it wasn't innocent to me—there was only pain. Because by then, I already knew. But I didn't want to tell you. I was lying there under the sheets next to you, and you were beautiful and sweet, and I was skinny and awkward—more than that, though, I was living a lie.

    I'm sorry I didn't tell you. But what can I do now? You can't take back something that's already been done; you can't unsay a word that's already been said; you can't reverse time. It's not going to be long now. And I just wanted to call you because I know what you said to your mother. That you never want to see me again.

    Please stop. I know what's really going on—you're scared, just like I am. It's not your fault. I don't blame you for trying to pull away. You don't want to hold my hand while I die. But what else is there to do? I knew all along that I had cancer. I didn't want to tell you, because I wanted to protect you from the truth. In the end, though…it didn't make a difference. I tried to keep it a secret because I didn't want you to leave me. But now I'm realizing I may have lost you forever. And I'm sorry. I was wrong, and it only hurt you worse.

    I know, tell a story in any order, happy or sad. It won't change the ending.

    But I love you. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry this fairy tale didn't end the way you thought it would. I'm sorry I lied to you.

    …hello?