I didn’t care that she took it back; it was too late, the words already uttered into our little universe.
I smiled to myself in the darkness, my desk light the only thing illuminating the cabin. It was quite humorous, rejoicing about my wife admitting that she loves me. My only wish was that she let me respond.
Agar’s words haunted me, constantly drifting in and out of the forefront of my mind.
I ripped out a piece of paper from the pad on my desk and got to work. I had to let her know what I was feeling whether it came from my lips or my pen. Whether she would know soon, or years from now, she had to know in some form what I was feeling right now.
I wrote through the night until the pen ran out. Then I pocketed it, making sure it was always by my side.
My condition was dwindling, and
