We lay tangled in silence, the sweat still cooling on our skin, the shadows stretching long across my room. I watched her fingers trace the outline of the sheet, her gaze distant, already half-gone. The air smelled of us—of endings and ache.
We had been fire together. Perfect in a way that only makes sense in dreams or summer nights. For a while, we thought that was enough. Our love was all-consuming, passionate, and cinematic. We burned brightly. But lately, we’d been slipping into arguments that started small and ended in silence. Fights about the future, what we wanted, and what we feared. The kind of differences that don’t seem like much at first—until you realise they’re the things that shape a life.
Still, I loved her. I probably always will. And last night, we made love like it was the first time, and the last. I memorised her curves again, the rhythm of her breath, the way her lips parted when she whispered my name. I wanted to hold onto her, but not out of hope—out of reverence. We knew what this was.
She got up slowly, quietly, as if noise would break whatever fragile peace we’d managed to hold. She dressed without looking at me, and I didn’t stop her. I couldn’t.
At the door, she turned. Her eyes were red, but her voice was light. “If we’re both alone in ten years’ time, why don’t we look each other up?”
I smiled a little. Couldn’t help it. But I didn’t want to give her anything real. Not yet. Not then. So I said, barely above a whisper, “I won’t miss you.”
She nodded like she believed me.
But I will. Every day. In ways I won’t be able to name. In the empty spaces where she used to live.
(More in SEETHINGS. Downloadable and free for a limited time.)
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