“Maybe someday.”
“Maybe.”

These dated photographs feel heavy on my fingertips, and I let the clouds surrounding them rain down on my paper heart. I scroll through conversations in grey and blue, green and white. All at once, the way it was pours through those iron gates.

I had let him go. On that late Sunday morning that I had hung up the phone, I felt hollowed out of love. And then Tuesday followed, with dozens of suits on George Street carrying bouquet after bouquet of a dozen of red roses, contesting my sanity as I screamed on the inside. And then my mind races back to those moments when I had known our separation was etched in stone, yet I had challenged logical reasoning and continued to paint my sky in hues of red and blue.

Reality burns – there is something more out there. Something that I could translate into a muse of the ages; Bic on Hilroy for a decade to come.

That was not him.

I had made this decision a hundred times over, yet I never thought it would be him first to find another heart to learn. Perhaps running away was the strongest act of kindness I had ever done for either of us. If I had not dropped the line he would have clung on forever, while I ran around the city on late night rendezvous with another degenerate who would have forgotten my name by dawn – crystallizing memories meant to be kept secret. And although our love story would never sell as platinum, I had still dreamt that goodbye would not be only way to live on unbroken.

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