what even is mango's life

In three months we meet again.

He wears a different winter coat than the one from last year, and his hair is longer. We are at the grocery store, and he is holding a mango in one hand and a grocery list in the other. My bracelet is still on his wrist.

“Hi,” I say, but -

“Fuck. I still love you,” he says, his face pale.

We both watch as the mango bruises under his white fingers.

—  Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #11 // lily rose.