...

Nobody knew why it happened, but it did.

And afterwards, we were certain of only one thing. From this time on, there was this world. This world that was dying. And then there was the other world.

I begged you not to go, but my begging did no good. You went anyway. 'I have to find out,' you said. 'And when I've found out, I'll come back for you. And then we can go together.'

You packed your belongings and some food into a small rucksack and kissed me. Then you climbed out the window and were gone.

                                                            * *

Each day there is a little less light. I sleep, eat, pace the room.

Each day at two in the afternoon, Mr Stone, the lodger in the basement, brings me my food parcel. Occasionally he gives me a stolen biro. He knows in the previous life - the one before there were two worlds - that I wrote for a living. He imagines the comfort that the simple act of putting words onto paper must give me. Mr Stone, he's a kind man. In return, I give him books I now know I'll never read.

                                                             * *

It was a warm June day when I saw you for the first time. As I sat at the table by the window, the bell over the door of the cafe rang and in you came. As you walked to the counter, a jumper hung over your arm, you half-turned and smiled at me.

That first time, I said nothing. You sipped your coffee and scrolled through your smart phone on the other side of the room. I took my empty note book from my bag and wrote the first question.

'Who is this beautiful girl?'

I wrote it at the top of the page and left the rest of the page for the answer.

Over the years, I'd write many more questions, always at the top of a new page, but never any answers. The answers, I believed foolishly, would be given by a life spent with you. Mere words would be inadequate.

                                                             *  *

I'm getting weaker. I forget things. Just this morning I spent hours searching for my note book, but for no good.

I lie on the bed and think of you. Of what you're doing in the other world. Of who you're dancing with, of who you're laughing with. I hope that you're happy now. I wonder why you never came back for me.

                                                            *  *

There's a knock on the door at two. I open the door and greet Mr Stone. He carries nothing today. He removes his hat, clears his throat as if to say something important.

'The other world,' he whispers to me. 'There is no return.'

I don't know how he's found out, and I don't ask him.

'Thankyou,' I reply.

He steps forward, wraps his huge arms around me in a hug and says quietly, 'Goodbye my friend.'

                                                            *  *

As I climb out the window, I realise that it's the first time I've left the room in months.

My torch picks out the rusty rungs of the fire escape's ladder. I begin climbing, take the first steps of my journey to the other world.

Who knows how long it is before I arrive? Days, weeks, years?

The ladder leads to a huge broken window. On the other side, a corridor, unlit and dirty.

I walk until I can feel you near me.

I call your name.

                                                            *  *

In the time before, I'd wake in the night sometimes. Lying on my back, I'd listen to the sound of your breathing. Sometimes, you'd continue in your sleep. Other times, as if subconsciously aware of my wakefulness, with a sigh - an exquisite, lovely sigh - you'd roll over in our bed, stretch out an arm to pull me close and rest your head on my chest.

                                                             *  *

I hear your last sigh. A final breath. Now you can let go.

You're leaning against the corridor wall with your legs out straight. Only a few tufts of your long blonde hair remain. Your clothes are filthy and your eyes are closed. Around your wrist is a label, tied with string.

'Infected. Leave to die.'

I sit down next to you, wrap my arms around you and pull you to me.

It's then that I notice my note book in your lap, a pen laying limply between the first and fore-finger of your right hand.

                                                             *  *

It's hard to read in the torch light, through my tears, but read I do. Cradling you against me, I read the words we'll no longer get to live together.

Underneath each of my questions, there's now an answer. At first, they're eloquent and dazzling, fizzing with dreams, aching with yearning. Words of love. Your elegant handwriting.

But with each answer, the writing becomes more erratic. More difficult to read.

The last answer is little more than a series of wavy lines and blank spaces, undecipherable, written by a beautiful girl with no life left.

What was it you so desperately wanted to tell me?

                                                               *  *

The last page of the note book has no question.

But, under the fading light of the torch, I realise what I'm looking at is the last thing you wrote.

Three dots.

Just three dots.

                                                                *  *

I turn off my torch and we sit together in the darkness, your body against mine, your head on my shoulder as if you were sleeping.

'I love you too,'  I reply, even though I know you can't hear me.