CERPEN "EVERLASTING"

EVERLASTING

Dear D,

I’m leaving this letter on your desk as an apologize that I may never be able to say directly to you. You need to know who exactly I am, more than a fifteen years old freshman in your high school, I always got my tongue twisted everytime I see those sparkling blue eyes of yours. You may say that I’m stronger than I thought just by looking through my smile, but here I am, telling you the truth.

I hate myself for saying this: I’m afraid we are no longer can stay together. It’s only the matter of time before my destiny decides the last day in my life.

Look, I’m sorry to tell this lately. I was just too happy to have you in my life. You are the greatest gift God gave me during my lifetime, and I just can’t lose you because of this thalassemia. If I only you can see beyond this reality, more than my fear to reveal truth, you would find the red string, it says “I love you”.

I’m sorry for hundreds of hope and expectation we’ve created together before, that would never be reached together. I will leave this world peacefully, and you will continue your life, bow down challenges, running faster, breath in the new air of spirit, and in the end, you will reach the top of your dreams. I believe with every single cell in my body that you are stronger than you thought, stronger than I thought, and stronger than the world thought.

You’ll be fine with or without me. But I’m here to promise you, I’ll always right beside you no matter what.

—

Daniel Dahlberg was at the moment in the end of his strength line. His hands frozen, holding those word lines that burned down his heart. A tear fell down from the corner of his eyes, rolling down his cheek, and dropped as the pouring rain outside his window.

It’s Clara.
It’s Clara who brought him down to his knees.
It’s Clara who flew him up in the sky without wings.
It’s Clara who blew butterflies to his stomach and fireflies upon his head.
It’s Clara who rose the sun by blooming a sweet smile.
It’s Clara who made him shooting stars in the night of December sky.
It’s Clara who created an imaginary world beyond reality.
It was Clara.
It is Clara.
And it will always be Clara.

As his feeling grew deeper and stronger, it led his feet swinging through the cold floor, faster and faster, out from his house, blended his tears with the pouring rain.

And there he goes, for the twentieth times in the last seven years, running seven kilometers, leaving his three floor mansion, black Mercedes Benz in the garage, abandoning his wet Ralph Lauren shirt, crossing weather pressure straight to the cemetery.

It’s always been, always be Clara.