Did I make you up?
He asked the tiny picture.
Did you ever exist as the person I longed for you to be?
He put the photo back in the secret pocket, snapped his wallet shut, and closed his hand around it, then sat on the edge of his small, flat bed, his loosely clenched hands to his temples. He felt the ring on his left hand. It was their couple's ring. It puzzled him how something that symbolizes everything warm and fuzzy could suddenly become rough and cold to the touch.
He closed his eyes and commanded his memories.
One kiss that he had initiated as an expression of his affection to me rather than the other way around.
One openhanded touch that was pure affection and nothing else.
One word of praise or affection, unhinged by sarcasm.
One hug that was brought by the joy of seeing me after a long time and not because I asked for it.
One date that he planned just to let me know that he want to be out and about doing fun activities with me.
One day with the bestfriends where I don't magically become non-existent in their presence.
He was certain there had been such moments, but he could not call one to the forefront of his mind.
He lowered his hand and looked at the closed wallet he still clutched and the silver ring on his finger.
Throw the ring away. Burn the photo.
No. He couldn’t quite bring himself to do that. Not yet. But he would not keep the photo in his wallet's secret pocket, nor sleep with it under his pillow and he would not wear the ring anymore. He’d set them aside, where he wouldn’t see them by accident. He would put them with the other mementos that now shamed him.
photo frome here
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