I sit on my couch reading the book you gifted me on my birthday. I don’t know many boyfriends who gift their girls gothic fictions but you weren’t the stereotype; you never were. I flip the pages of the novel sipping hot chocolate, and look at my phone to check if you messaged, for the 17th time today. No notifications. But I go online anyway to catch a glimpse of your latest display picture again. You’re online, probably chatting with her. I resist my urge to whatsapp call you “accidently” and linger around on our chat for a while. Those cute images of yours that you used to send to me to make me miss you more when I used to be out of town still make me miss you. Maybe you send it to her too now, except that her missing you would be accompanied by a dash of saddistic happiness of stealing you from me. I remember how annoyed I was when you told me your ex tried reconnecting with you several times. I always trusted you but I was too possessive of you, not wanting to share you with anyone else, maybe this is what made you feel you would be happier with her. But were you not happy with me? When I loved you and cared for you so much? When you used to teach me how to cook? When we made passionate love and our souls along with our bodies found home in each other? What happened to us then? Was I not allowed to be a little possessive of you? Was I not allowed a little clarity that you always denied me when it came to your ex?
I remember how you used to fondly spoon me while I cooked and held me, kissed me like I was the only one you cherished. And at the end of it, those kisses felt so empty; as though they said things that I was not ready to feel. The day you told me all the wrong things that made you go away from me, I didn’t cry. I was rather waiting for you to call and say that you would be back if I stopped cracking bad jokes. But you never called. A few weeks later I heard you started seeing her again and I think that was when I realised how really far you had gone from me.
I scroll up our texts and ‘typing’ catches my eye; I quickly close your chat window so I don’t get caught stalking you but I never get a text from you. Perhaps you were thinking of asking me to return my favourite black tee of yours that you left here. I wear it at times and remember how you seduced me every time you wore it. I hug my pillow and rest my head over it every night, pretending like its your chest that I used to rest my head on. But it’s sad that it never stops me from crying, like you did once when you were mine.


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