That's one bad thing about this small, no-hope town. When people come back, you remember them, long after they've forgotten about you.
***
A short story I wrote for university about a boy, a girl, and a past that can't be let go.
This is a short story and will only have one part. It was written for a short story assessment :-)
Cover by the incredible kimberley_white101:
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The first time I noticed Amy was in town, it was a Tuesday.
She brushed by me with a smile and one of those laughs that stay ingrained in your memory. She was gossiping and whispering with a friend. My first kiss. My first love. My first everything.
Now, she walks by me with no hint of recognition.
Her hair is longer than it was the last time I saw her. Cascading down her back, curling at the ends. My finger twitches against my coffee cup as I imagine running my hands through her hair, feeling it soft as silk against my skin, still remembering it on my fingertips. It feels like it was only yesterday, we hid in the depths of her room, tangled in her sheets.
Why is she back? I wonder.
She raises a hand, tucking her hair behind her ear and the ring on her left-hand glistens under the bright bulb hanging low from the ceiling. I jerk in surprise.
Amy is engaged.
My stomach churns, and I straighten in my seat. Her eyes glide around the room, passing over me.
Nothing.
The hand resting on my thigh balls into a fist.
That's one bad thing about this small, no-hope town. When people come back, you remember them, long after they've forgotten about you.
I watch silently as person after person–all people I graduated with whom also ignore my existence–venture inside to greet Amy. I'm sure they all knew she was coming back. They probably have many group chats. She might even be back for an occasion.
My mind reels, trying to snag something I've heard recently. Someone could have a birthday party? A dinner? A baby shower. The thought suddenly strikes me. Jessica Lindsey, in fact. That is why she would have returned.
Another event I will not be a part of.
I hear fragments of the conversation. She is so happy. She is engaged. She is a fully qualified physiotherapist now. Everything is just so perfect, she keeps gushing, her cheeks stained pink from the excitement of seeing everyone.
'Sir?'
I peel my eyes away from Amy to see a young waitress, the one who has served me already, smiling down at me.
'Sorry?'
'I asked if you'd like a refill, or perhaps something to eat?' she asks.
'No,' I dismiss her, looking back to the group. I then realise having something to eat would be a reason to stay longer.
