He Knew

Valentine's Writing Contest: #1


1. Words: 523

He knew he wasn’t going to win. I knew it too. Yet he tried anyway. It was that stupid, irrational determination that had me in love from the first moment. I had everything, and yet I had nothing. He had nothing, and yet he had everything. Including me. He said he would always love me. He doesn’t. I said we would always be friends. We’re not.

I don’t see him anymore. Not even as two strangers who smile at the memory of stolen kisses and adventuring through fields of yellow flowers stretching towards the sun. I’ve been with others since then, but our hands don’t fit quite right together. I don’t write him anymore. He would think I’m out of my mind. I would say something embarrassing.

I had a different name when we were together. No one calls me that anymore. Though I often still look up when I hear it. But it’s never an address to the girl on a stone bench. I remember his eyes more than anything else. They often seemed to whisper secrets he didn’t want everyone else to hear. My walls are white and bare, there’s nothing left of him here.

Every memory is stored far away. One beside a dry creek. Another on a dark stage with the curtains closed. I don’t go back. He wouldn’t be there. If he were, I’d likely stare and forget myself. Maybe I would cry. Perhaps I’d hope he didn’t recognize me. For it’s doubtful that he would. He had a way of looking at me without truly seeing me. He thought I saw him the same way. But I didn’t. My mother said he was confusing. I guess I’d just known him long enough to understand. Not that there was anything I could do to help him.

This must be the best way. 1,875 miles apart, he’s likely forgotten me. In the grand puzzle, our pieces don’t fit together. Still, the odd, forced pattern was captivating. Monsters of the night tore him from me. Long claws, dark shadows, I’m stronger than I used to be. Or maybe I’ve become the monster. The pain in his side, the pounding in his head, was it all my fault? Is it good that I’m gone? Can he finally breathe?

I wonder how many stars dot the sky. I wonder why music speaks to the heart, and why books captivate the mind. He would have known. He always had an answer even if it was wrong. People like him must be born the way they are. People don’t think like that in my world. It frustrates their logic, they turn from it like a virus. He often felt alone.

If everyone thought like him, we’d realize the sky isn’t really blue, but rather, it’s dotted with stars even at midday. Music wouldn’t be about the beat, it would be about words. And words in books would hold no value unless they urged the heart to beat quickly. Each second would count, and every human would taste salt water before slipping under the sand.

I hope to someday think like him. He knew.

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