Once, there was a girl who loved a boy who wrote happy stories, although she was the complete opposite of him. Unlike he, she was looking for the saddest story ever written, something about the most painful feeling any human being could feel, and in her desperation to know true human sorrow, she read every sad book that ever existed.
And the boy who used to write happy stories fell in love with her throughout all her frenzied desperation. He loved her so much his words started to exist for her. The happiness he used to write about stopped becoming what he was trying to convey.
Instead, he conveyed his true feelings for her.
And she never knew.
Years passed and the boy died, left with no more pages to read, the girl returned to find that the person she had loved had passed away, leaving her a book he had written for moments when she was gone.
When they buried him, they had given the book to her, as he requested. The moment she touched the cover, she knew what it was and never read it.
It was what she was looking for.
E P I L O G U E
The little boy walked up to his mother, holding an old, ragged book bound with dried leather strings. She scooped him up in her arms and brushed a kiss on his forehead.
“Where did you find that, my love?” She asked him, but the question passed through his ears as he turned it over and over in his hands.
“Mommy?” The boy spoke, with a tone of curiosity in his voice, “what is this book about?”
She looked at him. She could see him in those wide, innocent eyes, looking back at her.
“Grief.”
Graffitied 