16/04/16
The scent of rosemary lingers in the air, sharp and persistent, like a memory I can’t quite let go of. It’s the smell of endings, the kind of scent that clings to your skin even after you’ve scrubbed it raw. I stand at the edge of the bus stop, watching Rosie’s retreating figure through the blur of rain-slicked glass, feeling the empty ache settle somewhere deep, where words never quite reach.
I can’t say anything, even if I wanted to. The words press against my throat, sharp as broken glass, but I swallow them down, along with the hope that maybe, somehow, she’ll turn around. That she’ll see me standing here, waiting, hoping, my heart as raw and exposed as an open wound. But she doesn’t. She disappears into the crowd, swallowed by the city’s hum, and I’m left standing there, alone with nothing but the rain and the flickering shadows of memories I can’t bear to look at too closely.
I close my eyes, and the world blurs. I’m pulled back to the beginning, to seventh grade when we were just kids with scraped knees and clumsy hands, too young to understand the weight of words unspoken, the ache of hearts left unclaimed. Back to when I first saw her, all sharp edges and restless energy, a spark that burned too bright for me to look at directly. I didn’t know then that she’d be the one to unravel me, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but an echo of who I used to be.
I still feel her, even now, a ghost haunting the corners of my mind, a pulse that thrums beneath my skin, too close to ignore. I know I should let go, move on like she always could, but I can’t. She’s woven into my bones, a part of me as real as the air I breathe, and the thought of losing her, of letting her fade, feels like a death all its own.
The rain keeps falling, washing the city clean, erasing the traces of her, of us. But I can’t shake the feeling that she’s still here, just out of reach, waiting for me to find her, to pull her back from the edge before it’s too late. And for a fleeting, foolish moment, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I can.
YOU ARE READING
everything platonic ✓
ChickLiti tried my best to describe her resemblance with art. she did not believe me. she believed those days when crowds whispered around the halls; she believed her mind which told her that she was not capable of love; she believed in the dreadful night a...
