It gets easier. It goes away.
They said.
I want it back. We can try again.
I said.
It’s not something that could be fixed.
You said.
It's like every day I had fallen harder and I could tell by your smile that you knew. You lulled me into a false sense of security—the security of thinking you felt the same. I know I should have been more careful, but you should have been less selfish. Yes, things may have gotten hard but if you just tried to fix it then maybe we wouldn't be where we are now. We could have started over if we had just tried. But instead you chose to decide on your own; the decision to see what you wanted to see which meant seeing that it wasn't enough for you.
Looking back, it still stings a little. I remember everything. The way you whisper, telling me that I was different, sent shivers down my spine every time. The way you would give me that reassuring smile and how I felt that that was enough. The way I thought this was going somewhere and how you knew it wasn’t.
I still think about you more than I would actually care to admit. I still hear your voice inside my head, singing along to the very first song we had called ours. I'm not much for remembering, but I still remember that loud thump the door made when you chose to walk out of the debris of "us." And sometimes, I wish I walked right out with you.
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