Fingertips

The candlelight wavers, my heart goes numb. I feel your breath on my neck. It’s colder than it used to be. It courses like icy venom through my bloodstream, freezing me inside and out. The chair slides backwards, I twitch at the sound. You’re here—you’re really here.

Tears stream down my face. They’re warm. So warm. I welcome them like fire in winter. Now that you’re here, I don’t know what to say. It’s been so painfully long, hasn’t it? Christ, how long has it been? I didn’t know if you would come.

I think of you always. I sift through memories, playing your words on repeat just to hold on to your voice. I’m so scared that I’ll forget it someday. That I won’t know what you sound like anymore. I cry myself to sleep sometimes just thinking about it. If you become a stranger, part of me will as well.

The planchette moves.

My fingertips gravitate toward yours, just as they’ve always done. I’ve missed you so much. I feel incomplete without you here, like half of a person. I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d given to you until you were gone. It’s as if a piece of my soul has been removed and I’ll never be whole without it.

The planchette is your pen. I watch eagerly as you hover over each letter. I collect them all, store them in my mind for safekeeping. I’ll never let them go.

I have so much to tell you. So much that I want to ask. Did it hurt? Do you think of me? I wish you could stay here forever, that we could sit right here at this table until the end of time. There’s never enough of it, is there?

The planchette stops.

The chair slides away.

The flame is extinguished.

Your words loom over the darkness like a sky full of stars.

I love you, my darling.

Goodbye.