Okay, Story Part XVI: Post-Grand Finale Wrap-Up

It's true. I gave up on the story. In writing the last few chapters of this tale, I felt like I was going through another break-up. Surely this break-up was less painful than the real thing, but somehow, I felt deflated. So, again on the advice of Mr. B-Baltimore (our schlumpy genius friend), I am here at my keyboard in an attempt to properly finish this tale.

In my first turn at a relationship with Sebastian, I was still operating as though suffering and stoicism were required to earn a relationship; further, the success of the relationship was little more than a competition to be won. And I had always won in the past--though there were few prizes I sought, I proudly stacked my trophy case with all of my desired conquests. And once a trophy lost its luster, I simply moved out into the world on a quest for a larger, more dazzling prize. Because I rarely shared much of myself--a few dimensions at most--leaving each relationship was quite easy. True, realizing the trophy on my shelf was not the most perfectly crafted prize I once thought I had held in my hands was frequently painful, but I rarely lingered long.

So, when I failed despite having had suffered and trying to win, I was crushed. And because I never placed this trophy on a shelf, I had little opportunity to investigate it for flaws, cracks, dents and dings. My lingering feelings for Sebastian were, in reality, my feelings for the fantasy Sebastian I had built so long ago.

This last 'relationship' (using that word oh-so-loosely) inadvertently allowed me to investigate that prize--and I learned I had no desire for it. In my final letter to him, I of course did not share any of these thoughts, for I knew that the revelation of my identity would most likely preclude him from receiving them...

While I am sure my letter reads as though I would welcome him back should he 'offer me grace', I can tell you, dear reader, that my heart held no such invitation. In reality, I know that I could never be the dream he had created and with whom he had fallen in love within one week. And surely, he was not falling for me or Emily, but rather, the anonymous stranger whom he was fitting, stuffing, twisting and forcing into his fantasy lover's mold. That so much of her initially fit surely eased this process, but I wonder, if he had really been falling for Emily, would my true identity have mattered? And as for myself, I realized that I had no need for him to substantiate--to verify--my existence.


So though I spoke of grace for myself, I wonder if he, or you, dear reader, understood that the way in which I wrote that letter was an act of grace for him? An act of kindness for the undeserving. Yes, I knew that revealing my identity would make him reel, perhaps drop his stomach like he had once dropped mine, but I also knew that letting him believe Emily existed and that perhaps he had written a wrong word, or had approached too quickly and frightened her away or simply repulsed her in some mysterious way--that this would have been poetic, but unduly cruel justice.

In the end, I strive not to be poetic, but to be graceful. To exist in reality as I do in my fantasy. To trust in my own hand--to hear strength enough in my own voice that I need not shout, for a whisper spreads my truth:

I exist.