"The moon is too bright."
Endymion gently picked up a rose.
It was a sad, withered thing–
dying slowly.
Endymion looked out of the large window, the moonlight gently caressing his face.
It touched his hair,
his eyes,
his mouth,
slowly creeping into his chest—
like a strange warmth.
A sad look came over his eyes.
"Clytie would have loved it."
Endymion let the rose fall at the windowsill.
He turned around and sat at his table, pulling a book towards him.
He picked up the nearest quill and held it over a new page.
I am finished now.
His hand shook when the quill touched the page.
He wrote in his diary,
"Clytie,
I love you and the life you gave to me.
Each new day you let me breathe,
each morning…
that you let me see.
I ran.
I read.
I played.
Lived like a person.
A person who is meant to be alive."
His lip trembled.
"But underneath it all Clytie…
it was simply a borrowed life.
A trade.
A deal.
Nothing more."
A tear slipped out of his left eye.
"I knew I couldn't keep it forever.
You told me you were suffering."
"The life I had was stolen."
Endymion stopped and looked at the final words he had written on the page.
"But it came from you."
Endymion wiped his tears and wrote more.
"And that was…"
He breathed out softly.
"That was enough."
The quill slipped from his fingers.
The rose remained withered.