How To Move On

Forget (Short Story Version)

This is the initial piece i wrote back in 2016, that inspired me to write the essay found in the first part of this book. It's more raw, emotional, and one of the most heart-wrenching pieces I've ever written.

I also published this as a separate, standalone one-shot with its own cover.

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"How do I forget?" I ask him. I look straight into his eyes, making sure I don't waver. Not this time.

"Forget what?" He asks in return. He seems surprised that I'm staring into him so intensely. He should be. I only do this when I'm dead serious.

"Something... something beautiful," I say. I look around, careful not to give any hints. He has to be surprised. This has to go as planned.

"Beautiful? Why, um... why would you want to forget something, beautiful?" He says. He stumbles around his thoughts like sidewalk cracks. He's being careful. Because he doesn't know what ground he's treading on.

"I have reasons... I'd hate to say that I want to move on. As if I'm supposed to move on. I was never really tied to... I never belonged to anything. Or, I guess,"

I look at him.

"anyone."

He's caught off-guard. But not afraid. Just... curious.

"So it's not, some thing. You want to forget some person?" He asks. Doe eyes. So innocent I could stab them until he bleeds out. I hold back any traces of laughter. This is not the time for me to be amused. Especially not by him.

"'Person' would be too nice a word to describe him. He's a ghost. A ghost of... whatever he used to be," I say. This confuses him. It's tempting, to just say it out loud, right then and there. But no. He has to figure it out.

"Who is he? Or... who was he?" He asks. He looks like he really wants to know. But I know better than to believe a thing so fast.

"That's a tough question. He doesn't seem to know himself either. He could be anything. He could be..." I trail off. Hints. Small, candid, hints.

"What?" He asks. He's genuinely curious. I dare not give in.

"He was a myriad of things. But of all his uncertainties, some things were easy to remember. Like his eyebrows." My fingers touch his eyebrows. And he listens to my every word.

"He had these thick eyebrows. To him, they were nothing more than a patch of hair growing above his eyes. But to me, they were... an army. They'd march into place, into a line, when his thoughts would cloud his brain. And they stayed that way until the marshall blew the whistle, and the tension would leave the squadron, and they'd fall back into a seamless patch of nothingness."

I like to tell stories. He likes to listen. And my fingers travel a little down south.

"He also had these brown eyes. Hazel, earth, it was every shade. And every fiber of his goddamn iris were the waves of a vast ocean. The ocean was deep. And at the bottom you'd find every fragment of my psyche. My thoughts. With every look, I drowned in his motherfucking brown eyes."

He chuckles. Sweet little trickles of laughter bursting like bubbles from his lips. I smile. But I wipe it off my face. I can't let him see what he's doing to me.

"I always barely make it out alive. But a part of me always gets left behind, deep on the ocean floor. And it stays there. Waiting to be rediscovered."

I have his full attention. Even with his eyes closed. I realize that my fingers have been on his eyelids the entire time. So they travel once more, brushing past his lashes, and they land on a bridge.