It really is true, you know. That you don’t know what you have until you lose it; and that was true for me. I knew I had someone amazing, and special, and wonderful, but I never really knew just how amazing. I never appreciated the little things, like the way the sun lit her eyes, or the way her hair was splayed across the pillow when she slept, creating a halo of blackness. I never realised how almost-perfect her smile was, or how she always sucked the wrong end of the pen. Oh, I knew they were all there, but I never really…acknowledged them, you know?

My name is Thomas Parker, and I’m a widower. God, that sounds like I’m at some sort of Widower’s Anonymous, doesn’t it? I’m almost expecting a chorus of voices to say ‘hi, Tom’, and applaud me.
The ‘her’ I’m talking about? My darling, darling late wife, Rose. A more wonderful woman you could never meet. Now, I know people say that all the time- it’s one of those phrases you have to say at funerals, like ‘he was a friend to everyone’ and ‘she always had a smile on her face’; these are insincere sentiments, and are blatantly so. But not my Rose. She always did have a smile on her face, even in the final, tragic months. And a beautiful smile it was, too; slightly lopsided, with exposed teeth- she had a slight chip on one of her front teeth, and it was one of the most exquisitely heart-warming things I’ve ever seen. Although her best feature were undoubtedly her eyes- big, beautiful pools of blue that you could just dive into, that you could lose yourself in. And I did, frequently. There’d be times when we would just sit, and stare into each other’s eyes, not speaking a word- those are the moments I cherish. The silence, the quiet, the peace.

It wasn’t like that in the early years, though; we’d be wild, and crazy, and passionate. We’d kiss, and talk, and cuddle, and spend hours just lying in bed together, both of us completely naked, just talking. Not even about anything in particular- just anything and everything. Even in the early days, we’d talk about getting married, and having kids, and all the other things that you only think talk about when you’re a serious couple. See, even then, we knew that we would last forever. We just seemed to ‘click’, and I have not felt that again not before, not since. Well, maybe once since, but that’s another story for another time.

It was hard when she passed away. I’m not sure why- I knew it was happening, and I prepared myself for her death. But when she did die, it was so…shocking. I held her in my arms as she breathed her last, and it was terrifying how she seemed to shrink when she passed away. Almost as though, with the last exhalation of breath, her soul was gone, and the body crumpled up. I stayed with her, though, holding her until the body went cold- but as it was warmed by my own body heat, I had to be prised away when I finally fell asleep from exhaustion.

Afterwards, I had the worst time; I didn’t cry, and I hardly seemed to mourn her. In fact, I surprised myself with the ease with which I carried on my life, almost as though nothing had ever happened. It almost scary, really; I was nearly sociopathically calm, looking back at it. I didn’t feel anything; although for weeks afterwards, I’d feel lonely, and miss her. It would be the worst at night, when I’d lie in bed, and move my arm to hug her, only to feel a distinct lack of her. Or when I’d see a show on TV that she always used to watch- I’d watch it myself, but I’d have tears rolling right down my cheeks. The worst was that, just weeks before she died, I ordered something for her- a book she’d wanted for years. And then, a couple of days after she passed away, it was delivered; and that day, I cried. More than I’d ever cried, until I could cry no more.

And, to be honest, I’d been getting along just fine without her- until a little while ago, when I started to get the weirdest dreams and feelings. Like she’d be around me; standing in the hallways, sitting in a chair, looking out a window. And the dreams were worse- or better, depending on your opinion. One in particular was odd: it was at night, and I could hear crying. Walking through the house, I came across her, silhouetted in the moonlight, stood by the window, naked, crying. Wordlessly, I moved to where she was, and wrapped my arms around her waist, holding her lovingly. Wriggling in my grasp, she turned, and pressed her tear-moistened face to mine, her lips finding mine. We kissed for the longest time; a tender, loving kiss, filled with longing. And as she pulled away, she smiled at me, and whispered, in her soft, sweet voice, ‘don’t forget me when you’re with her’. I frowned, confused, and opened my mouth to speak, when I was jolted, and found myself awaking, eyes opening to the bright, harsh sunlight of the morning.

I don’t know what that meant, and I’m still puzzling over it; the only ‘her’ I can think of is Rose’s sister. But that’s impossible- I’m not falling in love with her, am I? No, I can’t be.

I can’t be.

I met her(Rose) when I was twenty, and she was eighteen. It was a beautiful Autumn day- the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the trees were those wonderful colours you only get in that season. Gold, red, yellow, orange, brown. The kind of scenery you could just stop and stare at for hours on end. Well, the kind of scenery I could stop and stare at for hours on end, but, then, I’ve always been a little unusual, I guess. I was completely different back then- I was definitely into protecting the environment, and nature, and...all that other hippy shit. Treehugger Tom, they called me, or sometimes just Treehugger. ‘Hey, Treehugger, kissed any bushes lately?’, they’d ask me, laughing like I was too shit thick to decipher their thinly fucking veiled innuendo, Neanderthal dickheads that they were.

Anyway, like I was saying, it was a beautiful day, and I was in the park, just minding my own business. Walking along, gazing at the trees, camera in hand, being innocent and whatnot. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a Red Kite- which as you know are extremely rare- and whirled around to look. As I did so, my camera swung on the strap, whirled into the air, and hit the girl walking past in the back of the head. And that’s how I met her.

Alright, so that didn’t actually happen. But it’s the way I wish it had happened, because it sounds so much more romantic, doesn’t it? So much more perfect. In fact, the way I met her was a lot less perfect, but no less effective. No less effective at all- and the subject of a lot of our conversations for quite a while afterwards.

I pretty much walked up to her one day, in a bar, told her I thought she was beautiful, and incredible, and that I thought we could be amazing together.

She was, and we were. For a while, things were more amazing between us than they’ve ever been. We did everything together, spent every waking- and sleeping- moment with each other. We stopped being Tom and Rose, and became...Tom and Rose. Everyone knew us as a couple. Everyone loved us as a couple. And we loved ourselves as a couple. Things were good, too good, and they were destined to fail; and it was me who caused them to. I won’t go into detail, because it still hurts to think about what I did to her, how I hurt her, and just how pathetically fucking stupid I was to ever presume I could have gotten away with it. Hell, even if I could, even if I had, the guilt would have torn me apart. Anyway, we spent a while apart from each other- she called it a break, but I knew it was really a break up. Without her, everything was worse- I couldn’t be as happy, couldn’t feel as alive. The world was a little paler, a little quieter, a little less there. But then, one wonderful, glorious day, I ran into her. And even though it killed me to see her, to talk to her, to inhale her scent, to be close enough to touch her, yet know I could, killed me, broke my heart just a little inside.

The point I'm making is this; without her, I was a wreck. A shell. A husk. A has-been. And then along came her, and she filled me back up again, with love, and greatness, and wonder and joy. She made me happy at a time when I thought, I swore, I knew I would and could never be happy- not truly, not properly happy- ever again.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. Just a bit.

Let me start at the beginning.

It was coming up for Valentine's Day, almost five years to the day since the loss of my Rosie...

Alright, so I'm here to bring down your Sundays with some depressing shit. Hooray.

Although I'd originally planned this to be him falling in love with Rose's sister, it can be pretty much anyone; a friend, a coworker, a random on the street.
All that matters, really, is that this is a sweet, innocent, pure little love story that just so happens to have some fucking sprinkled in here and there.

We can talk limits, characters, plot, etc; just drop me a message, and we'll get cracking.

As per usual, if this is still up, I'm still looking.