The Roughest Draft

by Emily Wibberley

Reading and loving books are the fingerprints of who I am—no matter how much I change, they’ll stay the same,

was it romantic when you instinctively knew someone’s very existence fascinated you, made you grateful?

There’s no truth to these pages, but the trick of fiction is to make you think there is. I let myself fall for it as often as I can.

I don’t make a habit of drawing inspiration from real people’s physical characteristics. Katrina is the exception. I can’t help reaching for her hands, her eyes, her smile when writing.

It’s one thing dreams have in common with writing—their tendency to betray me to myself.

I’ve worked my entire adult life to marshal the English language into whatever I wanted. But were I to try to capture Katrina with it, it would best even me.

I learned sometimes relationships don’t die. They just don’t grow.

Never leaving someone isn’t the same as loving them.

Now I’m realizing I have as many futures as I want. I’m free to focus on one I’ve chosen, not one I’ve clung to like a life raft.

Honestly, I think every single word I’ve written since the day I met you has in some way been leading up to this. To you.

Because I’ve realized a life lived with you is the best story I could ever tell.

Because the true, true horror, the one seemingly no one realizes but me, is that once you have your dreams, all you have left is the chance to lose them.