Shutter Speed

Day 1,442

Not all love stories get a happily ever after. If I'm going to tell our story, I want to be upfront from the start.

Day 1,442

I remember my life in flashes – fragments – pieces of moments I've lived through and didn't think anything of when they were occurring. I live the rest of my life more focused on these fragments than anything going forward. Very specific fragments replay in my mind like my favorite playlist on shuffle.

I remember a smile – crooked and adorable.

I remember eyes – beautiful eyes that would change color. I remember them watching my hands dance across the keys of a piano effortlessly.

I remember skin – soft,pale skin that got goose bumps whenever I'd touch it. 

I remember a laugh – the owner hated the sound of it, but I could never get enough.

I remember hair – long and fiery red and smooth, and shyly brushed behind small ears.

I remember my life in fragments - the most important ones always being her.

It's become somewhat of a habit to run my fingers across the ink just under my left collarbone. I suppose it's out of comfort now. Maybe perhaps a habit formed out of a coping mechanism – possibly a security blanket of mine I wasn't aware I was carrying. The ink is small, just large enough for me to see it, and black.

Black used to be my favorite color. I don't know if it counts as a color considering it's the absence of all color, but it was my favorite. Black was my favorite color until approximately thirteen minutes ago when I first glanced at my reflection in the dirty full-length mirror standing in front of me. I haven't stopped staring at my reflection, unsure of the person staring back at me. She's almost unrecognizable – almost – and she's wearing black.

I understand why black is a requirement at funerals. Black is the absence of color. Funerals are the absence of a person. It all makes sense in the grand scheme of things, I suppose. However, I would have preferred not to wear black. It makes me never want to wear black again. Every black dress I see myself in from now on is just a reminder of the absence.

I should've worn something else. Something red. She loved when I wore red. I hate the color red. I should wear red from now on. She'd laugh at that thought. I miss her laugh. I miss her voice.

I miss her.

My thumb runs across the black ink one last time as I close my eyes and tell myself I can get through today. Black is my favorite color.

I spend as much time as possible in this room – this room I don't even know the name of. It isn't a green room or a dressing room, but I'm not in a bathroom. Hell, what does it even matter what room I'm in? It doesn't. I'm just looking for a distraction. I welcome any excuse not to leave this room and face everyone on the other side of the door. I shouldn't even be thinking that. I shouldn't be thinking of myself at all. This isn't about me. This was never about me. It's always been about her.

"Jensen?" A shy, mature voice speaks up from behind me. I almost don't hear it because I'm so lost in my selfish thoughts. I know it's Anne before I shift my eyes to the corner of the mirror where I can see her peaking her head in. She smiles at me with a long breathe and I can practically feel the tears she's attempting to hold back. "The service is waiting for us. We have to be first." I hang my head, staring at my chewed up nail beds. Since I met her, I've taken up the unhealthy nervous habit. She used to scold me for it, but she bit hers just as much.