𝗕𝗨𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘

𝗘𝗽𝗶𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲

I sit down on the bench, our bench, and place my feet up on the bottle green surface. It's not overly comfortable, but I try my best to find the right position. I find myself here quite often, it's the best place I've got. The perfect amount of presence yet tranquility. Like I can feel Beau near whenever I sit down, but the empty space beside me isn't too heavy.

We used to come here a lot, now that I think about it. Whenever we passed Central Park—which was a fair few times a week, she'd almost always suggest we take a quick lap around, or at least until we reached here, and then she'd get too used to the comfort of a bench and forget all about the walk back to the car.

I didn't really care, I was just grateful I'd somehow managed to convert her into a walk lover. Not me, this bench. Because if she was ever walking then it was only to this very place. And she'd take a seat and swing her legs because the ground had been dug and her feet never quite managed to reach the floor but that made her happy, because kicking her legs always made her feel like a child again and who doesn't want that?

I get too caught up in memories so her laugh flutters through the leaves beside me as a sharp reminder that she's not here to swing her feet and watch the birds, and I mustn't get too caught up to forget that. A gentle stroke on the cheek by Mother Nature, as she attempts to prevent me from reminiscing too potently and I flip the magazine open.

This months vogue. July 2024. I don't recognise who's on the cover but Beau didn't always so I don't feel too much like a novice. I've tried music, writing, reading, but it's all just an act of distraction. I feel it whenever I put the pen to paper and no words spill out, or when I plug my earphones in but still manage to hear her calling my name in between the chord changes of James Arthur.

Vogue is different though, it's her.

I flip the front page over, and click the lid of my pen, ready to annotate the shit out of it: What reminds me of Beau, what I think she'd like, wear— and to what. Sometimes I see a pair of heels I could see her wearing to something like that celebration on the yacht, whilst other sunglasses are more for everyday use.

She used to do this, when she was younger and when she was here.

Each month, she'd pick up two of the same vogues. One she'd barely touch—saving for her future children so they could inherit a collection of 'vintage' edition magazines as she'd like to call them, and then there were her ones. Ones covered page to page, top to bottom in scribbles. An open invitation to her mind, from 'who the hell decided on that bag?!' to 'Darcy core' and a million and one dainty little hearts besides the outfits she loved or pieces she'd soon add to her never ending wishlist.

Those magazines became my best friends last Christmas, trying to win her back after our argument—the psych ward. I remember truly realising how much I fucking loved her as I flicked through each page, and read a new entry from her brain. I missed her, so much. Seven months later and I sit with a non-smudge ink pen, missing her even more.