Aspiring writer. Born storyteller.
Somewhere, out there, exists another universe that tells a better story of you and me. We are together. We rent a townhouse in Georgetown, one made of bricks and a cherry wine door. We drink birthday cake milkshakes out of mason jars in the summer, and take midnight walks on the first snow of winter. Life is warm and familiar.
We went to a charming café last night. The evening was fraught with fireflies and indigo stars. We sat beneath an ivory awning laced with velvety moss. Ordered two cappuccinos – the barista shaped the milk so a heart cascaded over our espresso. He must have known we are in love.
“I like the stars. It is the illusion of permanence, I think. They’re always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here, I can pretend – I can pretend things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Gods come, and gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don’t last, and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend…”
“He taught me how to love, but he didn’t teach me how to stop.”
I spent my New Year’s morning backing up all of my old files on my laptop. Not the most thrilling way to ring in 2017, but it helps me with that whole “clean slate” feeling. I then went to back up my iMessages. And that’s when I started scrolling through our entire history. I’ve been truly on my own for months now, and I’ve been reflecting on the past and who I was and currently am.
