My love for her was absolute. It was indefinite.
She was everything.
She went quietly.
Sometimes I wish she hadn't.
Sometimes I wish she had screamed and cried, that she had shown some spite for the great injustice that was being done to her.
Though, maybe I did that enough for both of us.
Once while I was sitting by her bed, she turned her pale, tired, tearstained face toward me and whispered,
"I don't want to go."
I just said, "I know."
I wish I had said more that day, but I didn't know that day was going to be her last.
She only told me she was feeling a bit unwell.
Like I said, she went quietly.
Merci pour la lecture!
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