I Fell in Love with Hope - Lancali

There is no regret in his voice. No resentment of an unfair,
uneventful existence. As if his life has just begun and he is declaring
that he will not let it pass him by.
But I have learned enough to know it is the opposite.
“People have this delusion of inherent purpose as if fate is written in
stone when really the pen has always been in our hands.” His fingers
close around the pages, crinkling the edges. Then he lets it go,
sitting up and letting the book sit with him. “We are all passive
protagonists until we learn how to write.”
“Then what are we when we put the pen down?”
“Then we’ve reached the end of our story.”
“And is this what you always intended?” I raise my voice, my fists
clenched.
He glances my way as I glance his. “When you created a sea of
inked pages and wrote till your fingers bled, did you want to never
reach the end?”
“Sam–”
“You can still live, Neo,” I say and the words echo, but I don’t think he
truly hears them. He hears his illnesses, the bevy of them,
whispering like sirens in his ear.
You must’ve seen it.
From the very beginning, you must’ve known.
When Neo caressed his bandage on the rooftop when he turned the
other cheek to treatments. The subtle frustration he held whenever
someone pointed out that he was getting better. Every single thought
that ran through his head, a narrative that twisted his disease into a
fantasy.