his friend told her not to talk to him anymore. and she kept her promise, just like that. that was the night she wrote her last letter to him. the one she never sent. she had wanted to send him letters every other week. in the end she only sent two. every so often, she fights the urge to message him, or pick up the pen. she’s sad that it has come to this, but then again. what else did she expect?
she hasn’t seen him in 2 and a half years. ‘why do i still have the urge to talk to him? what are you clinging onto?’, she questions herself about it again and again. she can’t help it, all she thinks about it the good, about what could have been. she still remembers the bad, but she blames it on her own immaturity. how else was she supposed to act?
one day she’ll read the Huxley book he got her. she wonders if he even remembers giving her the book? what does he remember? is what she remembers accurate? all she hears about him are little fragments from his friends.
‘i haven’t talked to him in a bit. last i heard, he was seeing someone at the start of summer, it was nice when he visited.’
‘oh really? that’s nice’
she doesn’t ask anymore.
sometime’s she’ll indulge herself, she’ll let her imagination explore. the lofi playlist crackles in the background, the lights are dim. the darkness in the room lends her imagination a hand as she begins to build together fragmented scenarios in her head.
she never puts them in a location, she’s never there, and he’s never here. but they’re together. and they’re happy… domestic and shit. she wonders if he knows, she wonders if he’s curious. she wants him back, she wants him back in her room, talking together, being together, she wants it all back.
she’s proud of him, she wishes she could say that to him. one day he’ll be saving people’s lives.
Oh! if she could do it again, she would she would!