Miscellaneous Short Stories and Story-Like-Things

Him

For some reason, I'm thinking about him. But not the bad stuff, not the horrible things he did and said. 

Just... he would like that shirt. This is just his style. He would know the answer to this. We went there together. 

And sometimes, not often, but sometimes, I think about how he's doing. If he's alive, even. If he thinks about me. If he misses me. If he needs me. 

And then, when I'm done thinking about him, I think about what he did, how isolated he made me feel. 

She told me I shouldn't go along with the things he said. She told me to form my own opinions about them, and not blindly listen to him say things about them that I have never witnessed. 

I think about how it was always him first, never me. We'd talk about his life, his problems, his suicidal ideation, his family, his inability to cope. Never me. Never my stress, never my problems, never my ideas or my time. 

And when I couldn't stand it alone any longer, when I finally told Mom, he got mad. Told me I'd ruined his life for thinking about mine. 

Sometimes I miss him. Sometimes I think about the good times. But mostly, I'm glad it's over.