After she was gone, he took the pen she’d given him from its box. “Guaranteed to never stop writing,” she’d said, smiling, pointing to the label on the box. He’d thought that wasn’t possible, but then he used to think a lot of things weren’t possible. He decided to start writing to her, all the things he hadn’t gotten around to saying when it would have mattered. He began to fill page after page with his thoughts, feelings, dreams, places he’d hoped they would some day go together, things that frightened him, things he’d never said to anyone. Hours turned to days, to weeks. He neglected food and sleep — they would only slow him down. There was so much to say.
He was found slumped over his writing desk, hundreds of pages scattered around him, each filled with dense small writing. “Natural causes, I guess,” pronounced the coroner, shaking his head. The detective pondered this, as he picked up the small pen lying next to the man’s open hand. “Well, one thing I can say,” he said, running the tip across a random sheet of paper, looking at the clean blue line it left, “this pen sure can write.”