Not All Love Stories Have Happy Endings

«I greet you with a battle's hero welcome»

I sit and watch you. My back against the window frame, a sad smile on my lips, I see you, waltzing at the arm of your lover, giggling and swirling between the dirty dishes and the kitchen's wooden furnitures.

It might sound like I am a creep. And, maybe, at this point, I somehow became one. I never knew where to put the line when it came to your boundaries. And I just want to know. How you're doing. If you thought about me those past years, if I ever crossed your mind. If life treated you right, just as it should have done, after what happened.

She leans towards you, murmuring some kind of secret only the two of you would know. And then leans back, a smirk playing off her lips, her arms still holding tight around your waist, and you close your eyes, throwing your head back laughing, a clear and loud laugh I wish I had known better and heard more when we were together.

Sometimes, I wish you could see me. And, strangely, not because I am still hopelessly in love with you, but rather more because I want you to know, really know what has happened. To reassure you. To show you and to prove to you that despite what fate had in store for me, I am still doing okay, as much as I can.

I loved you, with every little cell of my being. You had always been aware of how big and loud I loved. How loud I was about things that brought me joy in this morn and grey world, and how, above all else, I was loud about my undying love for you.
Because you, more than anything else in this entire universe, made me happy. I remember wanting to shout how proud I was to be your partner on every rooftop we could see, everytime we crossed the streets.

You still seem so young. Full of life. Hell bent on living the best years of your life while you’re still twenty and don’t have any responsibilities to keep your feet and mind tied to the ground.

Would you recognise me, if only you were able to see me right now? Have the years taken such a toll on me, made my eyes look older and brushed away all youth from my face, to the point you would now only see a stranger in me?

I would like to know. If three years apart, separated by the veil of death, are enough for you to completely forget me. If death is that much of a ruthless monster, it has irrevocably changed me that much you wouldn't recognise me if by some kind of chance you would happen to cross my path one day in the streets and see me as I see you now.

Time, I find myself thinking, is weird. It's strange. It is eerie, how it only affects some people and how others seem to be completely unbothered by it.

Don't you find it curious? How I felt as if I aged ten years since the last time we were together, but how you look unhinged just as if you had laughed all those years  in the face of time and aging without taking a single wrinkle.

I finally get myself to step out of this window. Order my feet to move, and I finally turn my back on you, leaving your apartment to go wander aimlessly in the streets, desert and cold as the nights I now spend awake, without you by my side to help me fall asleep smiling and content with life.

I do not even sleep now. It seems like death leaves you a lot of time, but in exchange takes away the feeling of tiredness you can feel at the end of a day, eager to go back home to your loved ones after studies or work. Now only existing as a wraith, without a body to stay attached to, I have nothing else to do than wander and weep about my past, our past; those memories we won't make and those we made and are now my only grip on you, the last thing tying our existences together.

My feet touch the bare charcoal of the streets, cold and just as inert as me now. And I can't feel it. Only you, still present in my mind, warms my heart and let me feel something other than this eternal emptiness.

Would you be ashamed, or mad at what trespassing has done to me? What kind of a poor shadow of myself, unable to feel or touch or smell I have now become? Would it make you sad, to know I am now in death only a half, or even a quarter, of the young woman mad with love and head over heels for you that I used to be?