𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 | g. w

60. traces of her

[ POV change ]

I never really recovered from the ailment that was my tattered heart. I learned to live with it instead, acclimating to the inevitable pain that seemed to become a part of my daily routine. Somehow, I became used to the idea that my life would never be the same as it was, and despite the ache in my chest, I couldn't stop myself from praying I'd one day be free of it. If at least for a short moment each day.

I didn't see her after my pathetic attempt at reconciliation that day in the book shop. She was clear in her need to distance herself from me, and despite the pain I felt realising she wasn't about to jump straight back into my waiting arms, I knew I needed to at least try and respect her wishes.

Days blurred together in a hazy continuum of sorrow and self-reflection. The joke shop I hadn't been brave enough to step foot inside in years but now forced myself to, once a haven of shared laughter, now echoed with the hollow silence of solitude. Each creak of the floorboards, a reminder of her absence, resonated through the dimly lit rooms.

The routine I once took for granted became a laborious task, each action weighed down by the heaviness of her lingering memory. Opening the curtains to let in the morning light felt like an act of defiance against the shadows that clung to my thoughts. The aroma of coffee, once a comforting embrace, now triggered memories of shared mornings that slipped through my fingers like sand. Memories I hadn't dared recall in years.

The city outside moved with its usual hustle, oblivious to the turmoil within. I found myself wandering through the familiar streets, chasing the ghost of our past. The bookstore, where our worlds collided and then shattered, stood as a silent witness to my heartache. I traced the path of our last conversation, hoping to find remnants of her presence lingering in the air, but found nothing.

Nights became an intricate dance with insomnia, as I tossed and turned in the empty bed that held traces of her warmth that seemed to mock my realisation that I couldn't, didn't want to, live without her, . The hollowness beside me felt expansive, an uncharted void that swallowed my attempts at sleep. The haunting melodies of our favorite songs played on a loop in my mind, their lyrics now carrying a weight that pressed against my chest where she used to lay. I even smelled the remnants of her perfume that had stuck to my pillow the last time she was here. I'd fall asleep breathing it in every night and cast a charm over it now and then to keep the smell from wearing off.

It seemed one of the very few things I had left of her and I wanted, needed, to salvage it.

In the kitchen, her absence echoed louder than the clatter of dishes. I found solace in preparing meals we once shared, a futile attempt to revive the intimacy lost in the aftermath of our heated words. The empty chair at the dining table became a silent testimony to the void that her departure had carved into my daily existence.

Letters, stained with the ink of unspoken emotions, accumulated on the desk – each one a desperate plea for reconciliation. The pen danced across the paper, crafting words that bared the raw vulnerability of a fractured heart. But as the pile grew, so did the realization that my confessions remained unheard, imprisoned in the silent sanctuary of unsent letters.

Time, normally a steadfast companion, became a cruel adversary, dragging its feet through the endless hours. In the quiet solitude of my thoughts, I grappled with the epiphany that had dawned too late. Regret became a heavy cloak that draped over my shoulders, and I yearned for the chance to rewrite our narrative. The calendar on the wall seemed to move at an agonizing pace, marking the days since I had let her slip away.

So I found myself contemplating every detail of our shared past. Every conversation, every word left unsaid, every moment of our relationship that ultimately lead us to the place we were now. I remembered every second spent with her or on my own just thinking about her. The emotions I'd come to associate with her, the touch of her skin, the way her face lit up as soon as she caught sight of me in a room. It all came rushing back and I realised nothing else would ever compare to it.

She was the love of my life and hopefully, I was hers.

But she needed to come to the realisation on her own.

The final decision was hers and hers alone.

All I could do was wait.