First Draft.

This was my first serious fiction attempt ever. So of course, my characters turned on me.

I.
"It's all right, David," Jesse said. "You can touch me, if you want."

My hand trembled as I reached out. I was afraid of being burnt, my hand was shaking so much, but as I softly grazed her cheek, it didn't feel hot... but cool, like she was already dead.

She wasn't, of course. She wasn't even sick, or near death. But my mind comes up with morbid turns of phrase of its own accord sometimes, and I can't help but to just ride the wave and hope I don't crash on the breakers.

Jesse smiled, that smile that says she knows something that I don't, and touched my hand. I flinched, and recoiled slightly. It'd been awhile since the last time I'd been handled with such care and grace (1 year, 4 months, 18 days), and just the very act spoke volumes to me of what could be.

"I'm afraid," I said, my voice breaking in spite of myself.

"Of what?"

"Everything."

She smiled again, and said, "So am I. But not right now"

II.
I first saw her in the city.

Never one to stand out or draw attention to myself, I didn't say anything for a few weeks. Every day, though, I'd see her: walking, sitting on a bench in the park, laughing, smiling. I saw her everywhere. In my paranoia of the time, I thought she was following me, to set me up, and mocking me in an especially cruel way. I became used to her presence, though. It was almost an afterthought when I brought myself to actually talk to her.

Turns out, she noticed me too. Still unsure why, as I am (and make an effort to be) nondescript in almost every way possible. Nonetheless, we spoke. And while I'd like to say that angels sang and the sky opened up and light shined down and all was right with the world... no. Instead, I got the distinct feeling she thought me a bit weird.

We continued to run into each other everywhere; me as I wandered to and fro in search of employment and music opportunities; her, as she advanced from temp job to temp job. Eventually, this segued into spending time WITH each other, rather than just AROUND each other.

We went to movies, concerts, nowhere in particular. We fell in love, as happens sometimes. My phobias of abandonment began to emerge, but she would put them to rest with simple words, and a kiss.

And it was good.

III.
"Can you even hear me?" she yelled. "David! Are you even listening?"

We were fighting again. This had become an almost daily occurance, and very unpredictable. I don't even remember what this one was about.

"Acknowledge me, d****t!"

"I'm sorry," I replied, "I AM listening."

"No, you're not, you're writing, aren't you?" She seemed almost incredulous. "You're transcribing this so you can show everyone the progression of our non-existent relationship. I bet you're even using some odd time jumps, and reverse chronology, and other clever literary devices."

I was taken aback. "Why would you say this?"

"Because I know you. In a way, I AM you. Because you don't think you're a strong enough writer to get by without them. Because, as you've probably already written somewhere, you're afraid of everything, especially change and progress. Do you think your 'audience' won't realize I'm a cipher? That there is no real 'Jesse'? That I'm just a cardboard cut-out you're using as a nod to your abandonment issues, and a counter-balance to your egotistical fascination with your own pseudo-phobias? You're transparent, they will see through you."

"No, that's not it at all, I'm just--"

"'You're just writing what you know,'" she sounded resigned now. "'You're just telling the truth', right? Except it's not, its not true. Its fiction, it says so right in the title. There are no 'perfect meetings' or 'encapsulated moments' in reality. There is no one truth. Its all subjective, and the moments have to be taken together, good bad and indifferent. You don't need to make me up, or make anything up. Just tell them YOUR truth, Nick, and the rest will take care of itself."

I couldn't believe I was hearing this. "But Jesse, I don't know--"

"STOP. Stop calling me that. And no, you don't know. No one knows anything. They can only guess, and speculate, and decide on their own. You say that you're afraid? So is everyone else, and they get by just fine."

I blinked. And then I stopped imagining things as I would like them to be. "I'm sorry."

But there was no one there to say it to.

IV.
I sat down, and I began to write