Whenever someone told me age was just a number, I wasn’t sure how to respond.  I  didn’t feel my age, had never felt my age, but I also knew I didn’t act my age.  I was twenty-three years old, old enough to buy cigarettes and alcohol, vote, but not old enough to rent a car without having to pay hefty fees.  The problem I really had about being twenty-three was that I had been twenty-three for almost five hundred years.  I had been told by my parents I had great genes, the best genes, but my thoughts were that my genes had kept me alive for much longer than I wanted to be.  My friends were gone, I had witnessed too many wars to count, and was continually on the move so no one could or would recognize me. 

I made friends along the way, but in a time of never-ending youth, I told everyone my job as a travel writer kept me busy enough that I travelled on a regular basis. It was my excuse to not stay in one place for too long. To not make any close friends since I would inevitably have to leave and lose contact. There had been a few times I thought I would finally leave this Earth, this place, this time, only to wake up and confound doctors with my miraculous recovery.  The miraculous recovery they always wanted to discuss and analyze, but I always found new ways to disappear. Disappear only to reappear in a different city or state and eventually a new country. 

Everything came to a crashing halt when I met Matthew. My biggest mistake was falling for his eyes. I let myself get lost in them – all day every day until I finally let down my guard. Let down my guard enough to let him into my house. And when Matthew made it in, I knew he could never leave. Unless he joined me in my own forever. 


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