Proof

The affair was of the heart and mind. Therefore, it was difficult to salvage fingerprints or hotel receipts. Proof was not of a literal nature. It had no form, but was felt inside without touch, same as the affair itself.

Ours is a story that cannot be told, but only can tell itself. It is one whose ending has not been written; and is unforeseen as anything but tragic and beautiful, regardless of which path it runs from here.

It already is, and has always been, an impossible dream. Still impossibility is what has dreamed its beauty. And without the fantasy behind it, it would not be so real as it is.