As the sun burst forth on each of her days, she took to crafting stories to fill in the void he left behind. Stories that were meant to be. Stories that were a part of her foregone future. Snippets that she had carefully etched over time, believing that someday she would read them out to him. And ask him what he thought of them. For they were as much a part of her reality as the endless looping of time. Day in and day out. Sunrise after sunset. And he was always a part of them.
Years later, she would still wake up on days, thinking about him. By then, she was a forgotten mischance to him. And still his being would cause her to pause and think. Why did she let him leave, those years past? She would inhale and repeat, because he wanted to. That was the only truth she wanted to know. Time is sedentary for some. It stills and stops at a curve. One stands looking across while the other effortlessly crosses the bend.
Years later, she would still wake up on days, thinking about him. By then, she was a forgotten mischance to him. And still his being would cause her to pause and think. Why did she let him leave, those years past? She would inhale and repeat, because he wanted to. That was the only truth she wanted to know. Time is sedentary for some. It stills and stops at a curve. One stands looking across while the other effortlessly crosses the bend.
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