“I know he loves her now,” she said, “and I’m only a memory that he tries not to visit too often.” She paused, looking so at peace, but in the saddest way possible. “I guess I just hope that he thinks of me from time to time. When he sees a sunset too beautiful for words, or when our favorite artist releases a new song, or when he passes my street. I just hope that sometimes he remembers what it felt like to be nineteen and so in love that it was almost like your heart might burst. I hope that he smells my old perfume and he can’t shake the picture of me running outside of my house, barefoot, to jump into his arms. I just want our love to still be important, you know? I just… I hope it lingers.”
“It sounds like a beautiful memory,” I told her. “How could he forget?”
She smiled. “Darling, everything fades with time. Even the most vivid of moments — realizing, for the first time, you’re in love, or your first kiss, or even the day it all came crashing down around you — fade as new moments pass. I just hope I was important enough to last a little while longer.”
excerpt from an unfinished book #136 // Thinking of you because Ed Sheeran released a new song
“What was the hardest part of your first heartbreak?” my little sister asked me one day. It was a sunny day, we were having a picnic. But suddenly, I felt as if the clouds had overtaken the sun.
“I think the hardest part was that we kind of morphed into the same person,” I said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“When you spend so much time together, you get so close. Soon enough, you can read each other’s minds, you can tell what they’re thinking just by a raise of their eyebrow.” I picked away at the grass we were sitting on, trying not to feel the depth of what I was saying. I couldn’t let myself get that low again. “Your favorite song becomes his favorite song. Then, his favorite bands become your favorite bands. You start loving the same movies. You pick up hiking together. And then when you break up, you still love all those things. It’s all still there.”
“But they’re not,” she said, almost in a whisper.
“But they’re not,” I repeated. “And it’s like you become a half of a person, left on your own to grow the other half back.”