My Angel | lrh ✔️

•30 Years Old•

When Jenny was thirty, she met a man.

He was tall, and brooding, and handsome. And I'm not afraid to say that, because he was.

He had a tattoo on his neck and a thick Australian accent that was much better than my own faded one. He wore smart clothes and he was a skilled drummer, putting her completely under his spell.

I watched from the roof as he bid her goodnight on the porch after their first date. I tucked my legs into my chest as he leaned in.

And I felt a tear fall as their lips connected.

She entered the house in complete bliss. She leant against the door and sighed in contentment, her mind probably replaying the events of what just happened.

I kept my eyes on her as she kicked her heels off and sat on the couch. I tried my hardest to get her to talk to me as she scrolled through her oversized cell-phone, but she never did.

She could no longer see me, for she had stopped believing in my existence a year after her twenty-sixth birthday.

I still stayed on the couch next to her that night, waiting as she drifted off to sleep before placing a blanket over her figure. And I found myself, in all of my oblivious glory, willingly clinging onto a piece of the past that I so badly wanted to be the present.