This is a work of fiction. The characters and situations are purely imaginary, and any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental and unintended.
My love was not the adolescent crush that she dismissed it as.
“Teacher and student, never works”, she said.
“Says who?”, I countered.“I am much older than you”, she said.
“I don’t care”, said I.
“But I do. I am twenty-seven, you are not yet fifteen.”
“In twelve years, I will be twenty-seven.”
“By then I will be almost forty. This gap can never be bridged.”
“I’ll think of a way”, I boasted. I couldn’t, but leukaemia did.
I turned seventy-five today, she is still thirty-two. When I join her in a few years, will she still want me?
Drabble(n) - an extremely short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length.