Yellowing Pages
Alice: I stand at the door of the library, and youβre inside. I donβt know whether it hurts more that Iβm not by your side or that youβre reading my favourite book. Do you remember that? Do you remember our phone conversations at 1am? You used to ask me all sorts of things, but of course Iβd never answer truthfully.
Except that time.
I donβt know what compelled me to tell you that, of all things. I suppose it was a way of giving you a piece of me to carry with you that wasnβt a lie, wasnβt all a path to murder. They told me not to get too attached to a victimβs family, and they told me it would make my job much easier; they were wrong, they were so wrong. Iβm glad I had my time with you.
It feels odd to be watching you through the glass as you turn the pages of Pride and Prejudice, a smile on your face, on hand in your dark curls and the other holding the book on the table. It feels odd to be here when I know you so well, and you know nothing of me, except that I lie, and I manipulate, and I kill. It feels odd to miss you so much. It feels odd that the aching in my chest has never really gone away since I met you.
I watch you for a while, just turning those yellowing pages. It hurts to say this, but I still love you. It feels strange, to love someone when to them I am but a stranger.
When you lift your eyes to mine in the window, I raise my hand in a silent salute. But before you can react, I have turned, and I have left.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
