The things I know

I kissed you when it was still dark.

That was my last memory of you.

Before dawn, you were awake and moving. There was a clang from the kitchen, a hiss from the bath, the creak of a door, the clunk of a suitcase. I heard all the sounds that would remind me of you for years.

you told me you had to get new bread. that the old one had gone stale. The bed was cold next to me.

We had met at the party of an acquaintance, and we were never more than casual friends. You were an engineer. I was an accountant. You were passionate. I was... well, I am not a passionate person.

I suppose, in the end, that's what made you leave. I never was enough for you. I was never a match for your passion. It was never my fault, and it was never your fault. It was simply the way it was.

I remember kissing you at the party. That's where our story began. You were standing against the wall, and I was standing next to you. We were both looking out over the crowd of dancers and drinkers and shouters, and then, for no reason at all, I turned my head and kissed you.

It was a soft kiss, a slow kiss. At first you were stiff and still, but then, like a flower turning towards the sun, you softened and leaned into me. You tasted like beer and sweat, and that wasn't something I was used to, but it was intoxicating.

You were an intense woman, and a passionate lover. But I was never enough for you.

I'm still not sure what happened. Why did you leave? Was it something I said? Did I not listen to you? Did I not hold you close enough, or kiss you hard enough? I never found out.

Now, as the sun rises and the city wakes, I sit in bed and wonder. The world is full of possibilities, but I'm not sure if I want any of them. The room feels empty. The house feels empty. I feel empty.

I kiss the sheets where you lay, and I know this is the last time I will ever do that.

This is the end of our story.

As the days passed, the emptiness in the house grew heavier, settling into the corners like dust. Every creak of the floorboards echoed your absence, every shadow whispered your name. I tried to fill the void with work, burying myself in spreadsheets and PowerPoints, but even the numbers couldn't distract me from the ache in my chest.

I found myself retracing our steps, replaying memories like old films in my mind. The way your laughter filled the room, the curve of your smile, the warmth of your hand in mine.

 Each recollection was a bittersweet reminder of what I had lost, a ghost haunting the halls of my heart.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, I found myself drawn to the places where we used to roam. I wandered the streets we once walked together, searching for traces of you in the fading light.

I passed by the café where we shared our first cup of coffee, the park where we laughed and danced in the rain, the bridge where we carved our initials into the wood. Each landmark held a piece of our story, a fragment of a love that had slipped through my fingers like sand.

And then, in the midst of my wandering, I saw you. Standing on the bridge, silhouetted against the dying light, you looked like a vision from a dream. My heart leaped in my chest, a wild hope sparking to life within me.

I called out your name, my voice a whisper carried on the evening breeze. You turned towards me, your eyes meeting mine across the distance. For a moment, time stood still, suspended in the space between us.

And then, without a word, you turned and walked away.

I stood rooted to the spot, watching as you disappeared into the gathering darkness. The ache in my chest swelled, threatening to consume me whole. But beneath the pain, there was something else stirring within me—a quiet resolve, a determination to find closure, to put an end to this endless cycle of longing.

I turned and walked away, leaving behind the ghosts of our past and stepping into the unknown. The road stretched out before me, winding its way through the city like a ribbon unraveling towards the horizon.

And though I knew the journey ahead would be long and arduous, I walked with steady footsteps, guided by the faint glimmer of hope shining in the distance. For the first time since you left, I felt the stirrings of something new—a flicker of possibility, a glimpse of a future untethered from the shadows of our past.

And as the night fell around me, I whispered a silent prayer into the darkness, a promise to myself and to you:

This is not the end of our story.

In the days that followed, I tried to bury myself in the distractions of the world, seeking solace in the arms of strangers and the warmth of fleeting connections. I found myself drawn to the bright lights and bustling crowds of the city, losing myself in the rhythm of its heartbeat.

And then, amidst the chaos of the night, I met her. She was like a breath of fresh air, a burst of light in the darkness. Her laughter was infectious, her smile a beacon of hope in a world gone gray.

We spent hours talking, sharing our hopes and dreams beneath the glow of streetlights. She listened with a kindness that softened the jagged edges of my pain, offering me a refuge from the storm raging within.

For a moment, it felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders, like I could finally breathe again. I allowed myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could find happiness once more.

But as the days turned into weeks, the cracks in my facade began to show. No matter how hard I tried to bury the memories of you, they haunted me like ghosts in the night, whispering of what could have been.

I found myself pulling away, retreating into the shadows where my heart lay shattered and broken. I tried to explain, to make her understand the turmoil raging within me, but the words caught in my throat, suffocated by the weight of my guilt.

In the end, I broke her heart just as you had broken mine, leaving behind a trail of shattered dreams and whispered promises. I watched as the light faded from her eyes, replaced by a sadness that mirrored my own.

And as I stood alone in the aftermath of our wreckage, I realized that I was no closer to healing than I had been before. The wounds you left behind still festered beneath the surface, poisoning everything I touched.

In the end, I was just as broken as before, a prisoner of my own making, condemned to wander the empty corridors of my heart for all eternity.

And so I whispered your name into the night, a silent plea for forgiveness that would never be granted. For in the end, I was the architect of my own downfall, the author of my own tragedy.

And as I stumbled through the darkness, lost and alone, I knew that I would never truly escape the ghost of you that haunted me still.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, but the specter of you refused to release its grip on my soul. I wandered through the city streets like a shadow, haunted by memories that refused to fade.

I tried to drown my sorrows in the bottom of a glass, seeking solace in the numbness that alcohol provided. But with each sip, the memories only grew louder, echoing in the hollow chamber of my heart.

I thought of reaching out to you, of begging for your forgiveness, but I knew deep down that it was futile. You had moved on, leaving me to pick up the pieces of my shattered existence.

And so I stumbled through life, a hollow shell of the man I once was, searching for something—anything—to fill the void you had left behind.

But no matter how hard I tried to forget, you were always there, lurking in the shadows, a constant reminder of everything I had lost.

And then, one day, amidst the chaos of the city, I saw her again. She was standing on the corner of a crowded street, her eyes searching the crowd as if looking for something—or someone.

I felt a pang of guilt wash over me as I watched her, knowing that I had been the one to break her heart. But despite everything, there was a flicker of hope stirring within me, a longing for redemption.

As the café door swung shut behind me, I felt a strange pull—not the reminder of the too hot coffee on my tongue, not her hand, not a memory, but something sharper, buried deep. A sudden, vivid clarity snapped into place.

The street blurred, not because I saw her standing across from me, but because I remembered something I shouldn’t have.

It wasn’t our story. It wasn’t even about the bridge or the party or that kiss in the dark.

It was the bread.

You never went to get bread. You never came back because I never let you leave.

My knees buckled as the memory hit like a freight train. Your voice—sharp and scared, not soft and fading—echoed in my skull. The hiss in the bathroom hadn’t been the water running; it had been the sound of your breath, shallow and trembling as I cornered you. The creak of the door wasn’t you leaving—it was me closing it behind us, locking it.

You hadn’t left. You hadn’t walked away.

You couldn’t.

The weight of it dragged me back, the shards of my shattered perception knitting themselves into a new, grotesque reality. I remembered the suitcase, the clang of it against the stairs—but it hadn’t gone far. I remembered the silence, the cold bed, the echo of your last breath.

And now, I felt the whisper of your voice—not an accusation, not a plea, but something far worse:

"I remember."