Pet Peeve
Everywhere I go, I seem to find them — strands of her hair, lingering like ghostly reminders. They turn up in the most unexpected places: tangled in the bristles of my toothbrush, clinging to the fabric of my favourite sweater, or even nestled in the corners of my motorcycle seat. These strands brings a mix of mild irritation and endearment. I would grumble under my breath as I pull them from the drain or pluck them off the couch, yet there was something comforting about their constant presence.
I’ll be tidying up my place and suddenly, there it is — a lone hair, glinting in the sunlight. In that moment, I’m transported back to lazy Sunday mornings, her laughter echoing in my ears, her presence filling every corner of my life.
Each stray hair tells a story. They whisper of the time we spent together, the memories we made, and the love that once was. It’s funny how something that once annoyed me can now bring a soft smile to my face, mingled with a twinge of sadness. I find myself carefully picking up these strands, almost reverently, before discarding them. It’s a strange ritual, a way of acknowledging what was and letting it go, bit by bit.
Her hair, once a symbol of our intertwined lives, now serves as a gentle reminder of the past. I suppose, in a way, these remnants are like echoes of a song we used to sing together, a melody that lingers long after the final note has faded.
