It hurt. Looking at her hurt. Her red hair was hanging over her face as she studied the book rested on the table where she sat. I noticed her, but she never noticed me. I often wondered if she knew me, knew my face, my name. Whether she was familiarised with who I was to her, if she was blatantly ignoring my presence. But then I remember that she does not know, I mean surely, she couldn’t. If she did, if she knew, surely she would not have stayed. I hope she would not have stayed. The lack of tension in her shoulders answered my incessant questioning enough. For now, at least.

I still remember the night I found out, cut clear into my memory. I tried to swallow it back, push it away, and pretend it was okay. The more I tried to forgive and forget, the more the memory clarified, the more my head burned with anger. 
 “I’ve met someone.”

Silence. Nothing but silence outside but on the inside, screaming. My temper flared as I felt my pulse quicken. Questions blared in my brain, so loud I could almost swear they came out of my mouth, yet nothing. Silence. Her voice shook, cracked, as she tried to explain as her eyes filled. I felt the hot sensation of heartbreak flash through my body, ripping through me as I got up to leave and her hand grabbed my own. I ripped it away out of spite.
 “Baby, please.”

But I am not your baby now, in fact the more I think, I never have been. I filled the void for you when she was a mere desire. Now, she fills your 2am silence. She falls asleep with you watching reruns, becomes the thesaurus when a word proves difficult to shift in your writing. Becomes the person you see your future with. And I become nothing, nothing but a stranger, yet again.


One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.