Fiction

There seems to be a heaviness in my chest that comes to form whenever my mind wonders back to you. Why do we punish ourselves in this way? The past is indeed in the past so why can we never let it rest there? Why must we dredge up the memories from the depths of our minds. Re-run the classic films stored for lonely nights and nostalgic days.

Each scene a dramatic blow to my heart.

Each line a sharp jab to the stomach.

This is no longer an extravagant dance for two. No more toing and froing of moves between us. In the past you would make your move and I would counter it. Now I watch from behind a screen, on the peripheral of your life. No longer am I the centre of your attraction. I wait in the shadows and watch you interact with someone new. I am but a mere memory. The faintest hint of what might have been. An insignificant facet of your life, your past. A notch, not on the belt or bedpost but rather somewhere indescribable. I’d like to think I meant that much. The simple truth of the matter is that I was not that to you. You left a mark on me that I cannot erase; but I to you? Nothing.

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