Mirage.

not him.

I can let him hold me, my hands, my waist. I can let him touch me, feel the roundness of my breast. I can let him kiss me, my forehead, my closed eyes. I can make him laugh. And make him look at me like I am his favourite Christmas morning. I can let him tell me, that even though I'm a stranger, he likes me, he thinks I'm fierce. I can let him convince me that I am over the boy who broke my heart. I can let the other guy, with eyes that shelters the calm of the Mediterranean blue convince me with his convincing playlist that he is my type and he is the one I should be with, or atleast fantasize about. I can let all of them try to sell the same convincing lie to me, I can believe that I am convinced, almost convinced.
But. Everytime I look at the nameless strangers, I use my fingers to trace the contour of my favorite face, my favorite crooked nose, my favorite crooked smile. And, my fingers stop lingering. It's never him. It's never the boy who broke my heart. And I stop trying to make my heart beat faster for someone who doesn't know the right ways to touch my body. Even while I push the hair out of this stranger's face, I use the same nimble playfulness, I had used for the boy who broke my heart. But. It's never the boy who broke my heart. It's always who had it in the first place, it's always his arms that I believe myself to be in. I close my eyes shut and pretend that it's not someone who would mean nothing to me in the next few hours, I pretend it's the sanctuary of someone who matters to me even after so many days of practiced denial.
I like you, the nameless strangers whisper in my ears.
But. You're not him, I whisper back.