3/15/2018

A cloud of dust filled the air as I dropped the book onto the table before me. An old journal of mine, half-filled with long-lost thoughts and memories. I wiped the dust off and opened the aged pages. I hadn't thought it had been so long. Slowly, I flipped through. Forgotten days flew before my eyes, some happy, some sad, some angry at the world. I frowned as I skimmed the old entries—there were so many more angry paragraphs than I thought I remembered. Had I really been so bitter?

I stopped at the most recent entry. For some reason, my eyes didn't want to read the words in front of them. I tried to fix them on the first line, but they darted away, as if they were consciously refusing to do as I commanded. I scowled at the paper and its tricks.

Finally, they stuck.

The world seemed to hold its breath. The first word, a name—one I didn't remember, yet one that I knew was once dear to me. How could this be? How long had it been? My eyes followed the line of text, soaking in the memory of a day long since past. Tears welled in my eyes. How could I forget her?

My fists clenched. How long? How long did it take to forget someone's existence? Had she not at one point meant the world to me? This name written on paper—is that all she was?

I grabbed the book and raised it over my head, ready to hurl it across the room. Something stopped me. I closed my eyes. I could feel her hand touch my shoulder. With shuddering lips, I whispered, "How?"

"Some things are better left forgotten," she said, her voice like a quiet stream flowing over smooth stones: all but silent, and gentler than anything else.

"No." That's all I could manage before my throat closed up.

She laid her head on mine.

I opened my eyes, finding the ceiling above me and my pillow beneath.