Here's a short I wrote for a class: **Farewell to a Passing Shadow**

**Story:** Farewell to a Passing Shadow \ Death is quiet. A hushed whisper. A shadow that disappears around the next corner. A door that can’t be opened twice. I can’t remember the last time I woke before him. I’m not sure why I do it now. Maybe it’s some instinctual thing that tells me it’s time to wake up. Maybe it’s just what people do when something inside of them is dying. He’s asleep on his side, in the same position as the night before. I can’t see his face. It’s just as well. I see it enough in my dreams. I see it all around me, on everything. Trees, flowers, even the stars. His face haunts me more, and I know it will haunt me more still when he’s gone. It’s a strange thing, watching someone slip away by inches. It’s stranger still to know that you’re slipping away too. Stranger still than that is knowing that you can’t stop it. All you can do is hold hands and watch. I’m afraid of him. I’m afraid of myself. I was never afraid of him before. I know that he would never harm me. But now I’m afraid. Maybe it’s the way he moves. Slowly, detached. Never quite present. The way he talks. Distant. The way he looks at me. Unseeing. It’s that, most of all, that I’m afraid of. Everything else I can deal with. But I miss being seen. I miss his face, his eyes, his laugh. I miss the way he used to look at me, like he couldn’t look anywhere else. I miss him. I miss us. I’m afraid I will never see him again, that he will never see me again. Afraid that I’ll never see that face, never see those eyes, never hear that laugh. Afraid that I’ll be alone, that he’ll be gone. But he’s not gone yet. He’s still here, asleep next to me in the bed that we bought together. I know why I woke up before him. I want to say goodbye to him while I still can. I want to see the face that I love so much one more time. I want to hear his voice, to see his smile. I want him to see me. I get out of bed, stand over him, and whisper. “Hey.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond. I didn’t expect him to. I know it’s pointless. I just want to see him smile, to call him mine. I don’t know why I’m crying, but I am. Deep racking sobs. All I can think is, this is it. This is the last time I’ll see him like this. Who knows what I’ll find when he wakes up? Maybe he won’t. Maybe this is the end. I whisper to him again. “Hey.” He still doesn’t move. I pray that he’s still in there, that there’s still some shred of him left. That he’s still in there. “Stop it,” I say aloud. “He’s fine.” I lie in bed and put my hand on his side, on the spot where the knife went in. He whimpers in his sleep. I don’t think he knows I’m crying, that I’m holding him. I slide closer to him and hold him. I wrap myself around him, hold him as tight as I can. “Stop it. He’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” I know it’s not true. He’s not going to be fine. We’re not going to be fine. And I don’t know how much longer we have together. That’s why I’m crying. Because this is the last time I’ll get to talk to him. The last time I’ll see the face I love. The last time we’ll be us. I don’t know how much longer we have. How much longer he has. How much longer I have. One day, I know that I’ll wake up next to his empty side. One day, I’ll be all that’s left of us. I pray that day isn’t today. I pray that he’ll be here when I wake up next. For now, he’s still here. I’ll be happy with that. I’ll be happy with what I have. I’ll be happy that I still have him, that I still get to see him, to hold him, to talk to him, to kiss him. I’ll be happy that he still has a face, even if it isn’t the one I love. I’ll be happy that he can still smile, even if it isn’t the same. I’ll be happy that he still laughs, even if it isn’t as bright. I’ll be happy I still have him. I’ll be happy that he’s still here. I’ll be happy that he’s mine. For now. ****** **Context: ** I wrote this for my intro creative writing workshop course. We were on a theme of "true love," and I didn't do it in the way that you might expect. Instead of trying to write about "true love," I took a different angle and decided I wanted to try to explain the visceral gut reaction you feel when you realize that you're watching someone you love die. (Or, at least, that's what I tried to do.) In this story, there's no name, no gender, no setting, etc. I intentionally left it vague and put more attention into the emotions. I spent a lot of time working on the word choice and figuring out how to try to convey the emotion in the fewest words I could. The character is saying "he" and "him" throughout the stories but that is about all you can infer on the characters sexual identity. Thus it is all intentionally vague. I just polished up the ending a little bit and figured I would post it in here to get some feedback or critique. The story is intentionally vague about any identity. I polished the ending a little.

Here's a short I wrote for a class: Farewell to a Passing Shadow

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