While the rain was still fresh on the windowpane, the writer scribbled hurriedly into her notebook. Her pen scrawled faster than her brain can keep up with, resulting in a script only legible to herself. That's the way it was supposed to be, right? Right, went her head. Wrong, said her heart. You're writing for him, aren't you?

The only shards of light that escaped the clouds barely skimmed the paper. Darkness gave way to melancholy and though she was used to the way the weather fought with her emotions, this was different. She was writing about him, right? Right, went her heart. Her head thought otherwise.

Her keen observance to the brevity of life struck an odd contrast to her faked emotional indifference towards him. Of course he was the best thing that could have happened to her. But why should she admit it, when she could spill any and all feelings onto the blank page without judgement? Perfect, her head agreed, and her heart sighed. 

The fresh roses on the side table stood as proof of his affection. 

Yes, she couldn't believe it. But she loved him, and never said it.

The heart lodged in her chest and the head squeezed into her brain warred for her best interests as she continued to write. Help me, the ink swirled. I need more time, and the pen paused. Somewhere, at this exact moment someone was dying. And yet at that precise time, someone was being born. And she was caught in the middle of the two extremes, the IV pumping liquid life and her face proving solid death. 

But she couldn't write that.

A nurse and a man walked in, both with heavy news.

"There's nothing more we can do," she told her. He said, "I won't stop loving you." There was a last round of shots, a first round of tulips. 

He kissed her for the first and last time. 

"I love you," she whispered.

"I'm sorry."