I sit on my balcony with a forgotten cigarette burning between my fingers and his old letters scattered on the table; the barely legible scrawl staining the paper, blurred and smudged where a lifetime of coffee cup rings have taken over. Behind the glassy shine of my eyes, I’m roaming casually through our history, reliving each moment in delicate, glorious detail. The shadow of stubble grazing his jawline, the lace curtains billowing quietly behind him and the effulgent sun setting like a wildfire beyond the windowpane. My heart had gone numb from aching, so long had I been reminiscing, but the phantom pain still lingered. I hadn’t wanted this, I reminded myself; this perfectly sharpened sorrow had never been the crown I wanted to bear.
But some sadnesses you can get used to, grow comfortable with; like a sweater that you grow into or the ethereal glow of light from some unknown place in the fog. Eventually, it becomes a dissociative security.
In the end, he got what he wanted. I was nothing but a ghost in the boarded-off recesses of his mind, a whisper on a windy hill. Not quite nothing, but not far from it, either.