I trashed everything that reminded you. But memories are the worst; how do I bury a part of me?
Nevertheless, with a strange pleasure I can say that it has been four days…I was not able to feel anything for you.
Neither love nor hate.
I did not miss you.
I did not even cry.
There has been other times like this before; none so long, though. I had estimated that over time they would get longer and longer. Then, one would be “it”. “It” would be the end of “us”.
While I cry over you, I often find myself humming “Come What May” of Moulin Rouge; one particular line I like – “suddenly my life does not seem such a waste“. It is such a fragile line.. What happens if one replaces the word “waste” with “mess”?
There will be an end of us.
Kate’s short story-V
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