February 13

Her dreams were eclipsed by the fear of forgetting. She had loved him through the many summers and winters she spent alone in her room. “He wasn’t coming back, was he?” she often asked people she met but the only people she met was herself. “The bed they shared, the rings they exchanged—is that all there is to love?” her own voice echoed and bounced off the walls around her. Or was it in her head? She wasn’t sure. It wasn’t important. In the search for her long lost lover, in the search for the answers that only love could give, were these walls turning into a bizarre asylum? But he wasn’t lost, he left without the solace of reason; he just left.

The light that sneaked in through the cracks of the windows seemed like the only beautiful thing she’d see all day. Just because the room she was in was dark, doesn’t mean that the world was devoid of light. And those tiny cracks were proof of that which she didn’t want to believe. Those creaks reminded her of the ones she carried in her own heart. Little did she see that there was still light that crept in through those cracks, that beckoned her attention, that called out to her to show her that if only she allowed, she could still love, that it was the bravest thing to do.

But she chose to punish herself in anguish and hurt and fill the fissures with the few memories left of him. She chose to take the road to destruction. She chose to be where he left her. In brokenness.



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