Katchoo, Francine, et al. copyright Terry Moore. Story is mine, do not reproduce without my permission.

She's gone. There's this empty aching smack dab in the middle of my heart. I told her to get out of my life. I didn't want to hurt her, but it was the only way I could protect her. God knows I haven't done a great job any other way. I guess it proves this theory I've had for years: the closer you get to me, the greater the risk that everyone gets hurt. And I hurt her the most.
And look at me now. I struck a deal with the devil because I couldn't go any lower, and now I have more power than Trump and Gates would know what to do with. But what has it gotten me? I'm nothing without her... I have no home.
The last time she saw me I was screaming at her. It was the most cruel of goodbyes imaginable. I used to wonder every night why it had to happen like that. Now, I try not to think about it. It's like trying to not think about your arms; it's always there, automatic, you can't live without it. And I'm not living. This is some sort of walking, waking purgatory that haunts my every moment. No peace, no repose.
I check in on her sometimes, from a distance. If I got too close she might recognize me, and I might not be able to resist the urge to run up to her and never let her go again. Too dangerous.

Last week I made a very big decision in this company, and if our plan fails it could bring down 30% of our little multi-million dollar house of cards. But do you want to know something? I don't care. I haven't cared since I was 16 and left my 'family'. Francine is the only one who made me care; she was my break from the fast lane, the breath of fresh air. And David... sweet, naive, loving David. I got to say goodbye to him, too. He was wrapped up like a mummy in the hospital; tubes, resperator, bandages... it was horrible. This young man, so full of life, brought down to that. It was my fault. If we hadn't gotten on that damn plane, none of this would have happened. Or would it have just been delayed?
When I said goodbye to David, I admitted something to him. How much I loved him, after trying to deny it for so long, I had to be honest. And when I had to leave, he held my hand. "Supposedly in a coma" my ass, he held my hand. He knew. I hope he can forgive me. Or forget about me. Maybe that would be better. Can Francine ever forget about me? I hope so. She'll go on, marry some wonderful man who'll drink with his buddies too much, but they'll have two wonderful children, and the little picket fence... maybe it will work for her.
As for me... all I have left is my painting. The closest thing I have to a soul. I have one painting of Francine, stashed away in my apartment. Looking like the beautiful, radient angel I knew her as.
I look out the window, the smokey purple sky, the rain pouring down like a pitcher from Heaven. I press my hand to the glass and begin to pray. I pray that she's alright. I wish from the bottom of my heart to be with her. I wish to fly away from mankind with them, never to be heard from again.