The Philosophy of Our Love

A/N: {okay so i wrote this for my entry in the writer tournaments, and it was my first piece in a while, so i thought why not share it, right? enjoy xp}

Prompt: “What you found in the notebook next to you.”

I could never manage to sit still when I was in my Philosophy class. I just never found a way to grasp the borderline insane theories that these ancient idealists spouted. Their ideas never sat right with me. They never clicked.

I turned to the side one day to see my friend scribbling notes on to her paper. I nudged her, and she smiled, but she didn’t look at me or stop writing.

“Class is almost over.” I whispered.

“I know, just finishing up some stuff.” She whispered back.

I raised an eyebrow and shut my notebook. I stuffed it in my bag as the teacher began dismissing the class, turning for a split second to grab my things off the seat next to me. By the time I turned back around, my friend was gone. I looked around in hopes of figuring out where she disappeared to, but stopped when I noticed her notebook next to me. She didn't forget it by accident.

I smiled and picked it up. Flipping it open, I noticed the entire thing was empty, save for the first page.

"The most beautiful of thoughts
are written in a space just above our heads
with an ink we can't see, and in a language we can’t yet read.

Every flower
every tree
every plant and every sea,
is a mere copy of its more perfect self;
the flawed interpretation of an ideal blueprint.

Within our grasp is the physical
and the unreal,
and all that we believed in for so long
was never really more than false hope
in a imperfect reality.

And if this never
ending love I feel for you is just a fabricated fantasy,
I want to experience the beautiful reality.”

Our teacher enjoyed creative writing, didn’t he? She must’ve been meaning to give it to him, but wanted me to read it first.

I stepped outside and looked around once more, hoping that she’d be waiting for me. She wasn’t. I took out my phone and dialed her number, only to go straight to voicemail. I smirked.

“You’re poetry is as amazing as you are. Now call me back.” I hung up.

Usually around this time, we’d go get lunch and talk about our plans for the rest of the week. Maybe she’s waiting in the café. So I went to investigate, only to find she wasn’t there either. I began wondering if she’d told me about any plans she had that day, but couldn’t remember anything.

I couldn’t worry. I wasn’t in charge of her and I couldn’t control if she went out or not. But I did worry, and I wanted to be.

We were once in the mall, on one of our first dates, when I found out she loved roses. We were passing a store that was selling flowers when she stopped in front of a bouquet of the most gorgeous white roses I’d ever seen. She didn’t ask me to buy them, but I did. She said I didn’t have to, but I wanted to.

I love you, she’d say. I love me too, I’d reply.

I found myself in the park. She wasn’t here either, but I didn’t expect her to be. I just knew she would’ve loved the flowers they grew here. I was planning on bringing her here one-day, maybe on our anniversary. There was something about corny, romantic gestures that she loved. And I loved that about her, because it made it so much easier to figure out what she liked.

“Well hello there.” I turned to see my philosophy teacher walking in behind me, “You were just in my class weren’t you?”

“Hello professor. Yeah, I was, I didn’t think you knew me.” I scratched my head.

“You’d be surprised how much of you I know. Did you enjoy the lecture today?” He asked.

“Well, I didn’t really get it.” And I didn’t really want to be having this conversation.

He chuckled, “Well, these aren’t my office hours, but let me give you a little recap.” He gestured for me to join him. “You see this grass?”

I nodded.

“Can you tell the difference between any two blades?”

I shook my head.

“Exactly, and would you like to know why?”

I shrugged.

He chuckled again, “Everything that we see isn’t real. This grass, the clouds, and even our own reflections. We are not unique. We all come from what is the perfect representation of us. We are just clones, just like this grass. Even the smallest blade has its flaws, and that’s because the idea of the perfect blade could never be compared to the sight of an actual blade. And if you’re a Platonist, there’s only one way to experience that perfect representation.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“When the soul leaves the body, it travels to the realm of truth. That’s how you become all knowing,”

I stared at him with a blank expression.

“You die.”

It was three days later I found myself dressed in a black suit, holding a white rose. She always said she wanted to see me in a suit, and thought our wedding day would’ve been the perfect opportunity. Perhaps she didn’t like these colors though. She always was the one to stand out in a room, with her brightly toned outfits.

Even as she lay unmoving in her coffin, she was as gorgeous as she’d ever been. Her pink dress stood out against the white cloth she lay against. I found myself standing beside her for quite while, oblivious to the tears rolling own my cheeks.

“Do you like the suit?” I asked her, “I thought you’d be happy if I wore one.”

I lay the rose next to her and left.

What I found in the notebook next to me was the most beautiful suicide note from my most beautiful of friends, and I’ve been crying ever since.