Letters to The Fighter ✔

28. Lost

Dear Peter,

I couldn't take it anymore. I watched Zoya waste away, piece by piece. She stopped blaming herself. Instead, she slept by Charlie's side every night. We all had our own methods of coping. You kept fighting your matches, refusing to let anyone in. I remained numb. I didn't know what to focus on. When I thought about my own sickness, I began to feel selfish. When I thought about Charlie, I felt afraid.

He was one of the only people who knew about my cancer, and now he was no longer there to support me. He'd make every day seem as if it wasn't so bad. Now he was gone.

Zoya--she just couldn't let go. She was a ghost who had her heart broken, stolen, and shattered to pieces again. When I complain about my sorrows, I think about her and how I've never known anyone stronger. Even with the love of her life on the brink of death, she was there for me. Every day, she was by my side through my illness. We had to be there for each other, especially in a time so dismal.

That's why I had to see you.

I didn't call to tell you that I was coming. One day before the Championships, I found myself back in the arena. It seemed emptier than ever before. I saw ghosts of Charlie in ever corner--in the entrance, stairs, on the seats--his smile haunting me wherever I looked.

Even the arena seemed bigger without him there. It was lonely.

When I stepped inside, I heard the sounds of a punching bag being hit over, and over, and over again, followed by loud grunts. You stood in the middle of the boxing ring, your ripped boxing gloves on your hands as they repeatedly punched the bag. Your cheeks were glistening with sweat. Or maybe they were tears; it was difficult to tell.

The sight of you resurfaced all kinds of different emotions, but Daisy's words were still echoing in my thoughts.

"If you care about him, you'll leave."

Silently, I ducked into the ring, trying to ignore the way that my heart sped in a race with my thoughts. My hands became clammy as they clutched the hardcover book to my chest. I cleared my throat, but you kept hitting the bag, your focus not phased.

"Peter," I whispered from right behind you, but you didn't stop. I took a deep breath and placed one pale, weak hand on your shoulder. Your arms stopped punching and you held on to the punching bag. You didn't turn around. Instead, you pressed your head against its leathery surface, squeezing your eyes shut. Your glistening, broad shoulders were tense.

"Pete, look at me, please," I whispered, but even my whispers seemed like shouts. You remained in the same position, your head resting against the punching bag. Finally, you turned to face me.

Your eyes--they were almost bloodshot. They were swollen from crying, and dark because they'd lost their light. Your gaze met mine, and within an instant, your arms flew towards me and engulfed me into a tight embrace.

I held on to you so tightly, I felt my muscles ache. My arms were wrapped around your shoulders as I cried into your bare skin, and you into my thick sweater. It was the first time we saw each other after the night at the hospital. We almost collapsed, our embraces not faltering as we expressed our love and sadness through tears that seemed infinite. I'd never seen you so vulnerable, and it scared me.

Your arms dropped from where they were snaked around my waist, and you sniffled before stepping backwards.

"Why, Lucy?" You asked, your hands on your face in agony, "I just don't get it. Why?"

You turned around and punched the bag with so much force that it almost flew off of its hook. You weren't depressed. You were furious.

I took a step towards you. This was a side of you that I had never seen before. I should've been scared of the man standing in front of me, but I couldn't be. He was the man I loved.

"Peter, that's not going to help," I whispered, holding my hand out for you to take. I kept the book under my other arm, pressed against my shaking body.

Your eyes met mine and within them was a fire like I'd never seen before. You stepped closer, until you were inches away, ignoring my outstretched arm. Your eyebrows furrowed and you shook your head.

"Then what is? Should I just sit around, waiting for him to wake up? Should I pray? Is that what you want me to do?"

There was no sense of delicacy in your words. See, Peter, this is why I stay away from anger. It makes us forget our humanity. It makes us repel love.

"No," I said, taking a step back, "You're hurting. Why won't you let me help you?"

You laughed, the twisted sound echoing in the arena.

"See, Lucy," You began, licking your lips in thought, "This is why love is bullshit. Every time you let someone into your life, you end up getting hurt. It's a sick fucking joke."

Your eyes, the ones that held so much passion before, were icy. Your voice was low, almost a growl. I knew you'd never hurt me, but at that moment, I felt like I didn't even know you.

"Peter, please," I grabbed your hand before you could move back. Your fingers twitched, but you didn't back away. Instead, your shoulders relaxed and you averted your gaze, "Don't do this to yourself. Don't fight that match tomorrow."

Your eyes shot up to meet mine, filled with confusion and doubt.

"What?" You tone was incredulous, eyes narrowed. I tightened my fingers around yours.

"Don't fight," I whispered softly, swallowing as I searched your eyes to find my Peter, "You don't have to do this."

You closed the distance between us, placing your hands on either side of my face. Your aphotic eyes bore into mine, making chills run up and down my spine.

"I have to," You mumbled under your breath, each word like a punch to my heart.

I nodded, trying to understand, but I couldn't. I didn't want you to fight. It was toxic for you. I knew that this anger would make you violent, make the darkness that I tried so hard to fight once again conquer your mind and soul.

"I brought you my book."

I placed it onto the ground. Inside the book was another flower. This was was a red rose, and this one was real. Your gaze followed me as I backed away, stepping off of the platform.

"Where are you going?" You asked, the anger that was overwhelming you now fading away, your eyes melancholy.

"Home," I smiled.

"Lucy, wait," One of your feet moved towards me, deceiving your mind. You looked at the book on the ground and back down at me, but words failed to escape your parted lips. You wanted to say something. You were fighting your darkness--your resentment, Peter; I knew you were, but you were losing.

"Goodbye, Peter," I whispered, "Good luck on your fight tomorrow."

I'm not good at goodbyes. In my mind, it's more of a 'See you later.' But at that moment, I was sure that I was doing the right thing. Although you didn't know, that was me saying goodbye to you forever. Daisy said that if I loved you, I'd have to leave. And I loved you more than anything.

My heart ached as I walked out of that arena, leaving a piece of it behind. Every bit of what I was doing felt wrong. It felt like a crime. I just couldn't hurt you, so I convinced myself that I was right.

I stepped into the terribly cold night. The world didn't seem real anymore. New York City was different in every way. The city that never sleeps was dull. There was no Charlie to illuminate it, no Zoya to roam its streets, no Lucy to plant its flowers, and no Peter to fights its matches.

NYC, the city I adored, was vacant.

All of the good in the world that I had always poured my faith into was betraying me. Every positive thought Nana ever engraved into my mind seemed pointless. Maybe you were right, Peter.

Love is sick.