You were supposed to be the rest of my life.

My happily ever after. My crunchy peanut butter soul mate.

I think of you every day, but it’s never a conscious act. More of a reflex in a continuous stream of thoughts: the cover of the album that’s playing, this tea is getting cold, maybe I’ll go out tomorrow, the way you looked the first time I saw you with your glasses on, I need to buy floss, the humidifier needs refilling…

It’s never something I can help. There are reminders of you in the colours of every sunrise, in the choruses of my songs, in the back of my mind when I’m left to my own devices. You became a habit I never wanted to break.

I forgot to give you this one too. It was supposed to be us. We were supposed to own the sky, to be it’s children, dancing under clouds you’d later paint. Sharing headphones on a bus, me in blue cardigan, you with fabulous hair. Walking to the grocery store on summer nights; you’d cook, I’d do the dishes. Catching up on each others days before drifting off to sleep. All the everyday stuff that would never feel ordinary again if your hand was in mine.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.


  1. I think I’m in love.

  2. They will never understand us. Really I don’t think they ever will.

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