'Maybe the stars have lied for once about us; they never even mentioned me losing you in the end.'
I get the call at 3:49am. I'd fallen asleep, despite telling you on the phone earlier that I'd be awake when you got home. I glance at the clock, figuring that I must have drifted off at about half past two, while my hands scrabble to find my phone from the folds of my duvet.
When I find it I quickly check the caller ID and see one of our wedding photos, which I'd set as your contact image. It's one of my favourites, taken by your Mum without us knowing; it shows the two of us grinning at each other, oblivious to what's going on around us. Already, I'm smiling as I answer the call.
"Hey, babe, why aren't you home yet?"
I know as soon as I hear an unfamiliar woman's voice respond that something is seriously wrong. A pit opens up in my stomach, my mouth goes dry.
When she speaks, it's like I'm hearing her from underwater. Her voice becomes distorted, distant. I catch enough words to understand what's going on, though. Husband. Road. Dark. Accident. Paramedic. Time. Hospital. Critical.
I don't know what time it is when I leave, or how I manage to drive myself to the hospital, or how I find the right ward in the Accident & Emergency department. All I know is that when I arrive, light-headed and barely able to breathe, I am too late. The sinking feeling starts the moment I step foot in the building.
Your parents stand up when I enter the waiting room, their expressions stricken. Both of them are crying, I see their red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. They look lost, like their energy and hope and reason for being have been drained from them.
Still, despite already knowing the answer, I force myself to say it. Hoarsely, I ask, "Am I too late?"
All it takes is my eyes meeting your mother's for a moment for me to see that I am. I think I'm crying and my legs give way because her arms are around me, holding me close to her as her sobs rack her small, thin body.
Maybe a minute passes, or maybe an hour, before I speak. "It's not fair."
"I know, honey, I know," she murmurs, comforting me the way she must have comforted you when you were young.
I feel sick with a wave anger. It sounds like something a petulant child would say, but it's true. This isn't fair. We were supposed to grow old together. We were soulmates; everyone used to say they'd never seen a couple as perfect as us. We were supposed to have three kids and two cats and maybe some grandchildren down the line.
We weren't supposed to end, especially like this. This isn't how our story was supposed to go, with your heart stopped and my heart broken.
I want to scream. Perhaps I do. My throat feels raw. I'm disorientated and exhausted. Somehow, I am drowning in so many emotions whilst still feeling numb at the edges, like there's a haze that will eventually lift, leaving me in an even worse agony.
Hospital staff and your parents and, some time later, my parents all try to talk to me, soothing words that fail to mask their own sadness. But that's the cruelest part of all: the one person I want to talk to about it, the only one whose arms could provide any form of solace, is you.
You always used to say we were written in the stars; I just wish someone had told me that those stars were crossed. That there would be no happy ending. That no amount of love, no amount of future plans or wedding vows or naïve faith, can stand a chance against fate. Fate - it once seemed to bring us together, only to tear us apart.
So, this is where our story ends. It's cruel and unfair and tragic, but this is the last page. All I can say is thank you, for giving me a story so beautiful that it's so painful for it to be over. Someday there will be other stories, I suppose, with new places and feelings and people. But, my love, our story will always be my favourite.
