Letters we never sent:Her Pov(02)

Her Pov(02)

It’s Sunday night. My hand remembers searching for yours in the dark as I walk home, like muscle memory that refuses to fade. Whenever I achieve something, I play with my phone hesitantly wanting to reach out to you; you know I would just die to make you proud.

There is always a hint of joy that makes my heart jump as I make my way back to my apartment. The ghost of a thought that you are there waiting for me, book in your right hand and a cup of mango-flavored tea in your left hand, that fetching smile of yours with the warmth of the yellow light. But the door opens to silence, an empty house filled only with furniture and with every step inside, a little piece of me is taken away.

My rage has softened now. I don't feel like ripping my heart out when I cry. I cry with grace. It might be healing but I know it is not peace. I wish I could tell you that I don't miss you, but I would be a blatant liar because you are still between my heartbeat and my breath. You are a scar I learned to touch without flinching.

I ache differently now. I ache for the version of us that did not work out, I ache for those days you looked at me like I was your north star and I ache for the way I once believed it.

My form of peace is not forgetting; perhaps it is learning to accept that sometimes there are no answers. Perhaps it is writing you letters that I will never be bold enough to send and hoping you find these words the way I once found your hand in the dark.

I hope I linger in your thoughts like I do before. I hope you remember me when you see cherry tomatoes, sunsets, I hope you remember my taste when you have red velvet cake…..Prosecco, green mug, Polaroids, lilies. I hope you remember that I was a home, but you kept on wandering.