The essence of adventure was indefinitely trapped inside that unseen force which had bound us together throughout the years. Possibilities popped up around us like flowers in the cement cracks of Reality, but together, we dreamed of the flowers overtaking the concrete. Not an endeavor in the world seemed beyond our grasp. Nothing could hold us back.
Lying in the lush, spring grass, with flowers in our hair, we mapped out our futures in the clouds above us. And when the summer sun burned hottest, we raced to where the waves lap the sand, cleansing ourselves until we rose from the water as new beings. Between drinking tea in the shade and seeking new avenues of self expression, the memories and promise of those adventures glowed vibrantly in our eyes.
At the end of the day, when we would part ways at last, you would take a piece of my soul that could only be recovered at reunion. You completed me. I never worried, because I always knew that reunion would come, until all of a sudden it didn't. All of a sudden, the life I knew was wrenched from underneath my feet. Without warning, I was discarded, like an injured bird that you finally realized you couldn't save.
You were my family, but I wasn't yours. And in the end, that's what destroyed us.
Now, as spring beckons and whispers to me the prospects of summer, the hole made from the chunk of my heart that you still carry with you begins to throb and bleed, expanding the emptiness, working to consume me. I can't look at the blooming flowers without smelling your perfume. I can't feel the sun on my skin without hearing your laugh. Reminders of you hide in the electric blue sky and soft gusts of wind, waiting to ambush me at every turn with your absence.
The hardest part to accept about all this is the knowledge that you don't miss me at all. You've deleted any trace of me, all but erasing me from your life and memory. The pain that I carry inside my chest day in and day out tortures me relentlessly, but you aren't sorry. Because at the end of the day, it's me who has to live with that pain, not you.
So while you drift to sleep at night, dreaming about the adventures you'll go on now without me, I am wide awake, soaking the pillowcase in lonely tears and mascara.
Although moving on has been a painful road to travel, I would be lying if I did not admit that every day the wound scabs over a little more. Every day, it hurts a little less. Every now and then, however, the healing gash will suffer a blow that ignites a fresh batch of pain to plague me. The materialization of what once was the season of us has caused such a blow, but I have hope that I will emerge a better person from it eventually.
I will hold my own hand, and tell myself that it's going to be okay. I will comfort myself through the razor sharp tears, and hold myself when I'm about to fall apart.
I will be my own best friend since you no longer want to be.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Records
Short Story"I've been injected with Music by the needle of a record player." ~Me To know my music is to know my soul. A simple collection of music and thoughts.
