“What are you doing here?” he asks, “You don’t have a backstage pass, you’re not supposed to be here.”
She smiles at him, ignoring what he said.
“Will you listen to me?” she asks, “I want to tell you something. It won’t take long.”
He looks around, but they're alone.
“Okay,” he says, shrugging. She's probably just another crazy fan, but she doesn't look as if she's about to attack him.
She nods and sits down on one of the tables that are scattered throughout the area. He makes no move to follow her example, so she pats the empty place next to her.
“I won’t bite,” she says.
He smiles, and sits down next to her.
“This is the last day of my life,” she says suddenly.
“Are you... ill?” he asks, looking at her. She doesn’t look like she is.
“No,” she says, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I wish I was though. It would be easier.”
“Suicide,” she says, interrupting him.
“Oh,” he whispers.
“This was the last thing I wanted to see,” she says, indicating the festival that was still going on behind them.
“You were right. I’m not supposed to be here,” she says, not talking about the backstage area. “When I was born, I cried for three weeks. I didn’t even sleep.” She smiles at him, but her eyes are sad. “I never wanted to be here.” She tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Somehow, I think I’m not even really here at all. It’s not real. Nothing is.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
She looks at him, tears glistening on her cheeks. “Because I wanted someone to know. To know that I was here, that I lived. And to know why I did it. And because I know it will make no difference in your life. By tomorrow, you’ll have forgotten me. It doesn’t matter.”
He digs into his pocket and hands her a handkerchief. She looks at it for a moment, surprise on her face. “Thank you.” She wipes away her tears.
“So why will you do it?” he asks softly.
She ponders this for a moment, looking at the handkerchief in her hands. “Because I don’t matter. Because I can’t go on. Because it’s better this way.”
They sit together in silence for a while.
“I’d better go now,” she says, “I have some things I need to do.” She slides off the table and starts walking. He grabs her wrist.
“Don’t do it,” he says, pleading.
She looks at him for a moment, then suddenly steps forward and kisses him on the lips. “Thank you,” she says again, and runs off.
He stays there for a long time after she's gone, thinking, half-hoping she’ll come back. But she doesn’t.
She’d been wrong. He hadn’t forgotten her. He looked for her at every concert, hoping to find her face in the crowd. But he hadn’t seen her again.
It's his turn to go now, not by choice, but by illness. He's dying, and he knows it. He's in hospital, surrounded by his family. ‘I want someone to know,’ she’d said. He’d make sure someone would. So he tells them about her. How she looked with the moonlight on her face. How she smiled at him. Someone needs to know. She shouldn’t be forgotten.
“I never even knew her name,” he says, and closes his eyes.
Yes, I know it's crappy. I still kind of like it, though.