𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔨𝔦𝔰𝔰

She sat on the floor, alone. It was raining, and though her eyes weren't quite overflowing, she felt as though the weather expressed her emotions perfectly.

It wasn't that she didn't miss him. Of course she missed him. She missed him more than anything. There was a reason why she was slumped sitting on the floor in his clothes, the faint husky smell of his hoodie enveloping her.

She could distinctly remember the last time it had rained like this. They had kissed in the door way, the street lights all darkened, and there was a porch light over their heads as their lips joined and she had felt the happiest she had ever been. It was enchanting. 

27 seconds of pure joy as she looked into his eyes and they smiled, before she had to leave. If that could've been their last kiss, she would've been satisfied with the little time they had so far. But no. Of course not. 

He had to drag it out, had to take those months and twist those 27 seconds. 27 seconds! That was how long the call had lasted. All that time reduced to such a small number. It was haunting.

As she curled up in the corner and let the tears run, she recalled the first time he used the L word. Love. She had marked the time, the look on his face, the exact moment, the childlike gleeful response he had when she too whispered back that she loved him. She almost wished he'd never grow up. Wished they could stay that young, that innocent.

She wiped her nose, which was getting runny and messy, with the hoodie sleeve. It had smears on it now, not that she cared. He fucking deserved it. She smiled a little bit. There really was nothing better than revenge. But then she looked down at it, remembered the tiems they had cuddled, when he had comforted her in September after he first saw her truly cry.

That made her want to cry more. 

The window was still open. She stumbled to her feet and went over to close it, but was stopped. Rain dropped on the window sill and on her shaking hands, but the smell of it was too familiar. 

She thought of the time he went to pick her up from the airport, a humid July 9th, the rain pouring down all around, the way he ran towards her with such infatuation on his face. The rain was fresh on the pavement, and he flung her into his arms. She had giggled, flustered, and squealed as he spun her around. And she'd whispered in his ear, "It's as though this is a movie. You're perfect, you know."

"You're even more perfect. And you're mine." He had smiled and kissed her nose. It really was perfect. Even if it was a movie it could not have been better, that timeless romcom feeling.

She could remember perfectly the swing of his step, the way sparks flew when they caught eyes. He was like the life of the party, and always was, always had been. Everywhere they went, he'd be showing off again. She would always roll her eyes, she'd never been a dancer.

But he'd always pull her in, always look into her eyes so deeply that he was the only one she would dance with and for. Because there was something about messing up his hair, there was something about his handshake when he met her dad, the way he was so respectful to her father, and his little smirk back at her. That was back in october.

It was December now. She would joke that she would always go back to the december last year, when it all started. Now, she supposed, she would always trail back to this day, this december.

More memories crept in from the back of her mind, and she went back to sitting in the corner, tears falling from her eyes as fast as the rain.

He walks with his hands in his pockets. He liked to kiss her when she was in the middle of saying something. She used to hate those interupptions, how rude they were. Now she could only think about how much she missed him.

He loves to play electric guitar. His very touch is as electric as his array of guitars. He loves to tease her until she calls him - called him - mean. He likes to laugh, loved her joke about crashing a wedding, always said he'd be the one to "speak now" if she ever got married to someone else. He called her dear, his favorite movie is Superman, and he hated when she called him by his full name. 

He also hated beng a J name, hated country music, hated too much makeup, hated when she laughed at him in the wrong way, hated how she could be such a drama queen, hated the way she was always saying sorry, hated how much of a people pleaser she was, and hated that she could be immature. He should've known. She was younger, after all.

That was the most disconcerting thing. The fact that he likely lowered his standards for her. The way she felt worthless, easy to pick up, and easy to put down, just like a phone.

How was she supposed to know how to be something he missed? She was barely able to be something he wanted.

She grabbed her phone and some headphones. These memories, these thoughts, this heartbreak, him...it was all getting to be too much. She glanced over at another corner of her room, a pile of book topped by a handmade scrapbook. She walked over and picked it up, the faint sound of music leaking from her headphones.

The Story of Us, it read. She flinched. She had made this after 7 months, after she realized in July that "he wasn't going to leave her like the others did". Too late for that. Even after a year it made no difference, did it. He was just like the others.

The castle he had built in her heart was crumbling, and her eyes grew blurry with tears. How could she have ever thought that they would last and live so long?

She looked through their life together in pictures, watching as the events of the past year went by.

"I used to fucking watch him sleep, used to be able to feel him breathe!" she said to no one, perhaps an empty bedroom, perhaps nothing at all. "Now he's forgetting me as easily as he fell in love." She hissed under her breath, as though an enormous wound had settled upon her body. 

She knew she would keep up with all of their mutual friends, asking if he was ok, asking if he was hurt too, and by his own hand. 

"I can see it now. I'm the foolish one. And I can see you now," she murmered as she looked at a sunny photograph of the two of them. "The worst thing is that I miss you." She stroked the picture, a tear falling down on it. "The worst thing is that I can't even remember when we last kissed. The worst thing is that I still wish you the best. I'd let you break my heart all over again just for another kiss."

Maybe he'd wish he'd stayed. Maybe -

There was no use. She couldn't have planned on him changing his mind, but she knew him well enough to know that he would not come running back. She picked up her phone again, and scrolled until she found a familiar name and album.

So I'll go

Sit on the floor wearing your clothes

All that I know is I don't know

How to be something you miss

I never thought we'd have a last kiss

Never imagined we'd end like this

Your name, forever the name on my lips

Just like our last kiss

Forever the name on my lips

Just like our last...