Tendrils of rosewater smoke drift across the room to meet my nose. A flickering candle emanates a warm yellow glow over my pen and paper, it makes my empty wine glass shimmer and the books lining each mahogany shelf hum. Dark shadows taunt me from the crevices of my study as I sink deeper and deeper into the worn cracks of my leather chair. This is a spot curved to my exact body, a spot I have sat in for countless nights. Through sheer maroon curtains, I can make out a moon. Tonights is almost full, only a trained eye would be able to notice the sliver that is missing.

 With a shaky inhale and exhale, I take the weight of my cool metal pen into my hand. This one will be the one, I know I'll get it right. The pen shifts in my hand until it finds its familiar spot. I close my eyes and steady my breathing. Before I know it I hear the scratch of my pen meeting the blank page, forming ideas into words and memories into stories.  

 I picture him. This time he’s on the sailboat. His dark curls pulled back by his faded Yankees cap, sunburn on the tip of his nose. He’s lighter, happier, than he used to be, channeling the energy of the waves. He fluently glides between each task the sailboat whispers, navigating us through soft sunset waters. I focus hard on that perfect smile of his, his glowing white teeth. That smile never went away when it was just the two of us at sea. His delicate kisses, sweet touch. My heart aches and the pen falls from my hand to roll across my desk. The all too familiar tear rolls down my cheek and journeys onto the page, sealing what will be my last manuscript. 

The paper crumbles in front of my eyes, reduced to nothing but dust. It used to bewilder me, but now I am wiping my eyes, letting my honey hair down, and putting on pink gloss. I eagerly pull my robe open to reveal my same outfit. The jeans I first wore when he first pulled me by the hand. Past the glowing Ferris wheel and symphony of carnival sounds. Cotton candy was still sweet on my tongue as we kicked off our shoes and plunged our toes deep into the cool sand. My crisp white shirt from the coffee run on the morning of the day we said “I do”. Giddiness made his iced black coffee slip right through his hands and all over the poor store's floors, splashing flecks of dark brown onto my pristine white shoulder. 

I take the cotton of the shirt between my fingers and rub the faded coffee stain, lost in the rich memories of him. Scooping the paper remnants into my cupped hand, I dump it into the long glass vase on my desk, adding to a pile of paper dust filled nearly to the top. Past dark oak double doors, moonlight pours in through floor-length windows that line the long hall beckoning me to the door. I walk slowly, letting my bare feet warm each cool wooden plank. I drift past faded photos of us dating back to a ripe 19, stopping just before he turns 26. The door comes all too quickly and I wait for the knocks. Three short raps. I let the excitement bubble up in my chest. I let it turn me into a girl again. I let it wake up each and every nerve. I captured him perfectly this time, at his best, I know it. The 3 knocks have never sounded sweeter than they do on this almost full-moon night. I swiftly pull the door wide open. The words I had just written have come to life before me. 

It’s him. The hat, the sun-kissed nose, the glowing white teeth.

It’s not him. His hair a shade too light, eyes a smidge too close together, smile crooked. 

My heart shatters for the millionth time. 

I let him in. I let his fraudulent feet step onto my floors. I let him come closer. His kiss is rough. His touch is hard. My chest heaves as I pull him close. He smells all wrong, clean linen where there’s supposed to be cedarwood and sage. I’m the moon that is missing a piece yet again. Watching this horrific nightly scene from afar, watching my heart break time and time again. I reach into my back pocket, feeling for the smooth handle of my dagger, it settles into the groves of my palm. He holds me close, too close. 

“You’re not him”, I whisper as I pull away from him and plunge my dagger deep into his chest.

His fake eyes widen and he falls with a heavy thud to the floor, staining the floors that already smell like bleach. I know what comes next. The nightly routine of dragging him downstairs to the incinerator, reaching for the bleach hanging next to the coat rack, washing my hands clean, and settling into a deep sleep. Except, I told myself that this would be the last one. My last manuscript,  my last chance at being with him. After 4 years of trying to capture him and failing, the next step becomes painfully clear. 

The nightly dive into the depths of my memory, the magical tears, the knocks at the door, it was never the right way. The only way is to come to him. So I decide we will have the same fate. I smooth down my hair, straighten my blood-spackled shirt and pull the dagger out of the dead man's chest with a squelch, positioning the blade to face myself. Without a second thought, I take my life the way he took his. Without saying goodbye to anyone he loves, without letting anyone convince him not to go. Plunging the same dagger into my heart. I can barely feel the pain blooming because I know that I will finally be with the true him.