Tonight I burned my film photos of you.
I sat outside in the cold, January air as the smell of paper, plastic, and butane wafted below my nose.
I didn’t burn the photos out of spite; I burnt them out of closure. I developed this roll of film the week before you dumped me. Tonight is the third time I’ve ever opened it.
The photos reflected some of our happiest days: one of you sitting in my backyard, drinking rosé on a peach-coloured blanket, surrounded by green grass and red rose bushes. Another photo shows you giving me a thumbs-up as your tanned late summer body hits the deep blue lake water behind you. My film camera was a way for capturing our adventures in a different light. As these photos turn to ashes, I thank you for the memories you gave me as I simultaneously let you go.
This also isn’t me glamorizing our relationship. Looking back I can tell we were never truly meant to be together: our worlds are on different paths, and we just happened to meet at an intersection. If COVID-19 had never happened, I wouldn’t have ever met you. Despite our failures, our short time together made me view my relationships in a different light.
As life goes, your light turned green and you left without me. I was hurt, lost, and broken. But, soon my light turned green and I continued along my own path. Tonight I looked back at our good times and remembered them instead of the bad times as I let you go over the ashes along my frozen concrete.
