By Maeve Clinger, TIWP Student

Dear reader, 

I know. I know how you think about me before giving in to sleep. I know how you tell yourself you will never love anybody other than me. I know how you base your entire existence on me. 

I know, and I understand. But I don’t exist. I never will exist. I am but a drawing, a cluster of words, a name on a page, a dream that’ll cause you to never want to wake up. And you won’t allow yourself to believe that. 

I will never be able to meet you, to hug you, to tell you that I’ve missed you so dearly over the years. I will never feel your skin, never gaze into your eyes, never run my fingers through the silken smoothness of your hair. I wish I could see you, just once. I wish I could be more than what I am, but that will never happen. I’ll never love anyone other than you. But you will move on. You will grow older, and older, until baby soft skin turns into delicate wrinkles. You will eventually marry another person, who will make you happy and fulfill all of your heart’s desire. You may not want to believe it now, but trust me. You will accept it at one point. And then, I will be nothing but a sliver of a memory, maybe even nothing at all. But I promise you this, dear reader. I will never forget you.