Rewrite

Writers are often referred to as forms of gods. They create their own universes, dictating the beginning and end of every character. They breathe life into every love they forge and manifest the best for each. But while all that is great, I, as a writer—mediocre though I may be—believe the greatest gift every author attains is freedom. Freedom to rewrite every story again and again. To craft a million endings, erase countless mistakes, and delete downfalls as though they never happened.

Sometimes, in my quietest hours, I wonder—what if our love was a story too? Just an output of my imagination, a scattering of words on a fragile page. If my trembling hands held the ink to rewrite our ending, what would you have wanted me to do? More so, do we even deserve a different ending?

Is our love worthy of a second chance, of a fairy-tale conclusion? Or did its depth lie in the way we unraveled, the way we grew apart? Were we ever meant to be a tale for the stars to envy, or were we destined to be lessons etched into each other’s pages? As much as I want to rewrite us—to place us in each other’s arms—would our love truly feel the same without its thorns? A story stripped of its cracks, its lies, and its pain wouldn’t really be ours, would it?

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Maybe that’s the curse of being both a character and a writer. All I can do is stand and watch how word leads to word, how time churns us forward, powerless to stop it. Even with all my craft, I don’t think I’ll ever do justice to us. My actions hurt us once, and my thoughts might again. It seems I’ve already failed as both lover and creator.

So, if we were ever to be rewritten, I would place you beside me. I’d plant the power of forgiveness in your heart and the wisdom of understanding in mine. But the truth lingers like a shadow—would it even be right to remaster us? Could I? And most of all, would you let me?

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