Standing here now, I can't understand how I had so much courage.

Say, it was bold of me to assume that the author of my story is miserable. How painful and agonizing must it be, to be replied with a sentiment akin to,

You can die now. After all, a fiction character of yours, said so.

I bite my lips at the sheer disdain I have toward those words. Why did I make myself out to be a fool? A brat who thought that simply being together would be nice and dandy?

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

As if I'm the only reason he's alive. As an author, how many more unfinished stories might he have, besides mine? How many have he been able to finish, how many more will he bleed out, the red of his blood dripping into the black of his pen.

Or pencil. The message appeared to be written entirely in graphite, rather messily. Yet each stroke, each word and sentence was drawn with purpose.

It is not right of me to chide him on his handwriting when it does not matter.

I raised the blinds to my room, and in alarm, saw a dark sky, so thick with clouds, but only tiny pittering raindrops.

What's hurting you so, Rainman? What's causing you to cry slowly, your mood as dark as a room with no light.

Why... why is some of the rain red?

Are you dying?