“You can’t keep chasing the past”

*This fanfic is underneath my folder titled “The Great Gatsby fanfics (Yes, you read that right)”. The Great Gatsby is a novel written by F. Scott Fitzgerald. This fanfic is based off the novel, not the 2013 movie adaption. Now, the movie is pretty similar to the book, but I wanted to point out that this is based on the book and not on the movie because in the movie, the main character, Nick, ends up at an asylum, while in the book, he does not. That was added for dramatic effect in the movie. This is a ship between two of the characters, Nick and Gatsby. (This ship isn’t canon in the writing but eh…it kind of is lol. Read the book and watch the movie. You’ll understand then.) Before we start, I should note that my writing and Fitzgerald’s writing is different. I tried my best to replicate how his main character, Nick, spoke while also incorporating the ship and my own style of writing. I don’t know how well I did, but please let me know. Gacha Club character designs are under my forum titled “My character designs<33”. Enjoy!*

I don’t know why I keep expecting people to show up. Nobody came for the funeral and they certainly won’t come for his grave. Gatsby seems like the type of man people would want to show up for, the type of man people would praise. After all, people only showed up for his parties.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? They only came for his parties. They never knew anything about him. All of it was just stories and speculation. Sometimes, when I’m standing by his grave, I can hardly believe the sight of it and I’ll think that I’ll wake up and find that everything with Gatsby was a dream, that there really is no Gatsby.

I try to visit Gatsby’s grave whenever I can. There’s not much time for me to do it, considering how I’m trying to find a job when more of America is starting to look like the Valley of Ashes. It’s getting harder and harder every day for me to be an honest man, but then I think of Gatsby and how he strived to be the best he can be and I pursue on with my career in bonds, even though I’m losing money with every second that passes by. I have the same money as the Buchanans and I could take some out of the bank and live like them with no trouble, but that wouldn’t be honest of me at all.

So I stay honest for myself and for Gatsby, the man who could light up a whole room, who knew just what to say and when to say it and….and who must have lied about countless things.

His grave reads as “JAY GATSBY”, but that’s not even his real name. His father told me that he was born as “James Gatz”, but nobody else knew him for who he once was, so he is buried here, all alone, without any loved ones to lie with him in the dirt. I don’t usually like people who lie, but Gatsby was different. He changed himself for Daisy. Daisy was his whole world. Daisy was the rose in his eyes. Daisy was everything to him.

Daisy Daisy Daisy Daisy Daisy DaisyDaisyDaisyDaisyDaisyDAISYDAISYDAISYDAISY it was always about Daisy. Daisy, the girl he promised to love forever once he came back from war, to cherish her deep in his heart like nobody else in the world. Daisy, the girl he would kill the whole world for if it meant having her in his arms. He knew Daisy so well, just like he knew that he was alive.

But he didn’t know her as much as me. She’s my cousin and I’ve known her since childhood. I know her. She was never once going to pick him. Ever. She may have shown some moments of love to him and she may not love Tom at all, but her loyalty will forever be tied with Tom’s. Gatsby’s life of dreams and dancing was not a life that my cousin, Daisy Buchanan, would ever be able to live by. She knows it, Tom knows it, I know it.

After the drinking and the partying was over, it would just be me and Gatsby. He would tell me all sorts of wonderful things about himself, about the people he knew and the things he did. I never once got bored of his tales, in fact, I miss hearing his voice right now, so soft and melodic, like the sound of a harp.

He was so in love with Daisy that he kept looking far off across the bay, where the green light was. He stared at that green light as though that would lead him to Daisy, as though it would keep blinking for him and only for him.

I knew that Daisy wouldn’t choose him from how she looked at him, from how she acted with him. But Gatsby didn’t. He didn’t see the little things, the little worrisome, troubling things. He only saw all that glittered and gleamed, all that was like a dazzling dream.

I knew and I didn’t have the heart to tell him. Why, if only I had told him that the green light had long since passed, that it would never be at his reach, that Daisy didn’t love him, then maybe he’d be alive. Maybe I’d get to see him again. Maybe he wouldn’t rot all alone.

This is a trying time right now. The parties of the twenties have died away and now everyone’s fighting to survive.

If he were alive now, Gatsby wouldn’t be able to throw all of his parties anymore because he’d lose everything and then he’d come to me, asking me what to do about his situation, to get Daisy back. Those cool blue eyes of his would have hints of worry within them, he’d be on the edge of breaking, but I would be there to comfort him. I would be there to tell him that though he’s lost his money, he doesn’t need to worry about Daisy, because she was always going to stay with Tom, never him. I’d tell him that I would always, always be there for him and that I would choose him over the Buchanans and the riffraff any day of my life. He wouldn’t believe my words and he would be determined to try and win her over, but it would only be a matter of time before she and Tom left with their child and their wealth, then he’d only have me. It would be hard on him, but I would be around to help him. I’d keep him company. I would…

Oh god, why didn’t I help him? Why didn’t I tell him about Daisy? I told him he couldn’t keep chasing the past, yet he still looked over at the green light, he kept reaching out for Daisy. I tried my best but I didn’t try hard enough. I didn’t do enough. He was the one person exempt from my judgement and I…I failed him. If I showed him how much I cared, maybe things would be different. Here I am now, chasing the past as though I can stop him from

But would he ever stop chasing Daisy? Even with me trying to help him see that she wasn’t the one, would he ever stop trying? Is it too much to ask for him to have seen me as something more than another face at a party? To care about me the way he cared about Daisy? Is that too much…

I wrote a whole book about him as though that would change things. As though writing about him would make me forget the many nights we had together, where I always thought for a fraction of a second that we were getting closer, only for the conversation to somehow turn right back to Daisy. It always became about Daisy, without fail. Yet still I listened, for I could never leave him all alone, to fester in his regrets.

I wrote a book about him as though writing about his house, his dreams, his smile, would bring him back to life.

It’s just a book that nobody else will care about. I was standing by his grave before but now I find myself on my knees, tracing a finger over his name, the name he created to make himself a God, the name that’s becoming covered by moss that I keep trying my best to chip away with my nails, but it just keeps on growing back no matter what.

I place a rose next to his grave. I always bring roses to his grave every time that I come. I can see the past roses that I’ve given him all blackened and dried up, no sign of any other flowers left for him. Daisy once said I reminded her of a rose, but I don’t think that she meant it. I think she wanted the time to pass by. I hope she didn’t mean it. I’m nothing like a rose. I’m not a real rose, Gatsby is. Gatsby has the effortless, classical purity and charm that all roses have, so I leave only roses for him. It’s just the perfect thing for him, I think.

I didn’t try to chip at his grave today, but I’ll keep trying when I come back. I can’t let the moss cover up his name. Even if nobody remembers who he was, even if it’s not his real name, it should still be present for all to see, for all to know that a person lies here. Not an ideal or a story or a prize, but a person.

My whole chest is compressing against my heart, it’s so hard to breathe, like I’m choking…I’m choking on sobs. Tears are falling from my eyes and onto the rose I left for him, onto the sparse, brown-etched grass six feet over his coffin.

His coffin! What a terrible thing to think about! Gatsby, a man of such vitality and vigor, lying six feet under, left to be eaten by worms and maggots. The man whose only crime was believing in a love that would never come.

I can feel my lips start to move, I’m slightly shocked to hear my own voice, so hoarse and barely audible…

“My god, Gatsby. Why did you keep chasing that green light?”