#eckle

If I could write people happy endings, I'd never look up from my notebook. If wishing them true made it so, I'd never leave the well. And if I could magic everyone's troubles away, then I'd never stop waving that wand. But I can't. I'd draw a brand new home for us with words, a bed for you and I to come home to and a cosy, tiny living room where we could smell dinner cooking and hear bird song. There'd be a baby giggling in your arms, half you and half me and utterly, wonderfully ours. We'd have no health problems, my bad brain would be banished and so would your wisdom teeth. I'd leave the love in, though. Really, it's the only thing that matters. For you, I'd create a job that was absolutely perfect. I don't know how yet, I'd have to mix in horses and art and a little bit of books, because being a bookseller used to make you light up. There'd be a little house too, just room for you and your egg and a greyhound, because even in the depths of my imagination you wouldn't function without a dog. I would rub out the things that make you use full stops and add warm cups of tea and the joy of the moment you passed your driving test, over and over again. In your case, I'd just like you to be happy, little brother. I'd give you the moon if I could reach it, or write you a back story that fits. I'd cut the lines where you have allergies and replace them with tales of flying and music and film. You are braver than you know and you fight your battles as bravely as any fairytale knight. I'd send you back to Scotland, though we'd all miss you horribly. Create a job for your husband and a little nursery near by for your baby (who would magically let you sleep through the night). You'd meet Garth Nix and get your books signed, hear the sea while you drifted off to sleep and have frequent visits from the friends who would message you daily to check you were okay, even if you weren't so good at answering. Cambridge's acting troupe would suddenly decide to move to Oxford for you, Eckle. Then you wouldn't have to choose between bagels and them, you could have it all. I'd craft you a world where pronouns don't exist and you can have seventy names if you want to. I'd leave the scars. Like Arthur, you have fought your wars with too much courage to forget them now. I'd write a thousand stories if they'd help. They wouldn't, so I'll make you all bread and listen to you. I will do my best to be as good as friend to you as you have been to me and I'll never stop holding out hope for your happily ever afters.