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Forgetting

 

One of the things that scared me the most after he left, was that I would one day forget the sound of his voice. And that voice, teeming with warm sweetness and love when he uttered my name, could only be his and his only. No matter how expertly a recording captured his voice, nothing could ever imitate him.

Some nights, I jarred up from sleep, sweating and crying for the thoughts of forgetting him. Some days, I waddled through the past conversations and resurrect the memories.

I was the girl who fell in love and being loved back. He was the boy who thought that he was too broken, too damaged for me. Yet, when our souls touched, the earth trembled, the skies on fire, the stars danced, and the moon shone the brightest. I was shattered into a thousand tiny stardust of words. His love has set me free.



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The story continues, in the spaces between what is and what was. Read if it calls to you, skip if not. Thank you for keeping me company. ************************* Part 6 As my eyes lulled to sleep, I heard the night sing a wordless song of farewell to the lost love and to the world that I left behind, a strange realm that exists outside of time, where you and I forever lived under the aligned sun and moon, in the sky adorned with dancing stars. /// Mornings came differently now. The light was sharper, colder, as if reminding me that the world I had known in the garden belonged only to memory. I tried to hold onto it, but life pressed in with its routines, its obligations, and its quiet insistence that I move forward. In my darkest hours, I wished for an ending, my own ending, and for the garden to remain sealed in its realm, forever beyond my reach. I moved to a new city, rented a small apartment, and began to write. Words poured out of me like wind through white clouds, pages filled with longing, fragments of laughter, and sunlight. Friends and my mother checked in often, their concern gentle and persistent. They seemed to wonder what had truly happened, why I would sometimes grow distant in the middle of a conversation, as though some part of me had drifted elsewhere. They never knew of the nights I screamed and cried in my sleep, haunted by what I had lost. I could only smile, brush off their questions, and carry on as if nothing had broken inside me. Still, no matter where I went, no matter how far I wandered, I remembered the garden. I remembered the way the wind played with his hair, the quiet sway of the flowers, the golden evening light that had made everything feel almost sacred. Sometimes, I wondered if it had all been real, or if it was a dream that clung too stubbornly to me to let go. When I could no longer hold the longing, I returned. The city felt distant, the world around me muted, as I passed through the familiar gate. The garden stretched before me, pale and quiet, waiting as if it had always known I would come again. I walked slowly among the flowers, my fingers brushing their petals, my heart aching with the sadness that this could be the last time I would see it, and part of me wished it would disappear to end the pain. Inside the mansion, the gallery revealed itself once more. There, among the familiar paintings and photographs, I found new images of him and her, smiling in scenes that could never belong to me, moments of happiness that had unfolded without me. Each frame whispered the truth I had tried so long to resist. A life that had moved on without me. I stepped back toward the gate. With a slow, deliberate motion, I closed it behind me. When I looked back, the garden had vanished, folded into memory as though it had never been there. And yet, I felt it in the quiet pulse of my chest, in the words I would write, in the night that sang its endless song. The garden was gone, but our story, in some fragile and unbroken way, lived on within me. I turned away from where the garden had been, the wind brushing softly against my face, carrying the faintest memory of petals and sunlight. Life waited beyond the mansion, in the city, in the pages I wrote, in the quiet conversations of friends and my mother who still worried for me. And yet, sometimes at night, when the world grows still and the stars align just so, I feel the pulse of that other place. A world outside of time, a world where he and I had once existed, suspended between sun and moon. I do not know if I will return, or if that world will ever open its gates to me again. But I know this. The story we shared is not finished. Somewhere, in the threads of memory, in the quiet breath of the night, it waits. And I wait with it, knowing that some endings are only the beginning of another chapter. End of Part 6 ©️ M. | September 2025 Part 5 https://ift.tt/fGBwXpQ

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