Her story.

She isn’t here anymore and we aren’t what we used to be. The conversations are over, and a part of a fond memory. I still find her in the back of my pocket some times. Usually where I keep my pack cigarettes. I see her smiling at me when I’m listening to my favourite song, cut off from the world.

I visit nearby cafes, read old diaries and realise the real coffee stains are still inside my heart. The coffee doesn’t feel satisfying though. I miss her laughter that accompanied me.
She is a memory I’d hug over and over because it makes me feel warm.
I find us locked in time. We are still kissing. Holding each other. Breathing next to each other. I’m still there.
I know she is happy, wherever she is now.
We are in different continents, countries and time zones. We aren’t one anymore. But, I still feel like a part of her story. This isn’t my story. It’s hers.


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