A Future Only Foretold

The tragedy was never losing him. It was getting used to him.

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My words
are drifting away from me.

I am sleep-deprived,
yet sleep feels even further away
than yesterday.

A farewell
to the person
who really saw me
and made me believe again.

He made a believer out of me.

Only to take that belief away
as he left,
chasing the idea of another
who never truly saw him.

I watched his grief
translate itself into blame.

He wanted me to be there.

I said I could be.

I cannot.

A spark appeared
when I told him
we could still be friends.

My heart sizzled,
but my face wore a smile

until I realised
I wished to be chosen, too.

Strange, isn’t it,
to stand in front of someone,
look them in the eye,

and wait for them to see you?

I thought he did.

For a while.

Part of him
remained
in the past.

While I sat at home
holding the notebook he gave me,

the one embossed
with my initials.

I wanted to send him a message.

“It was cruel of you
to let me
get used to you.”

I didn’t.

Today,
he arrived
carrying a mixture

of comfort

and tension.

Somehow,
he still looked
better than yesterday.

Like something in him
had shifted.

When someone isn’t happy,
they have a way of
wearing it outward.

They don’t look ugly.

They look worn out.

He looked
more like himself today.

It felt like
the night we met.

He stood behind me.

Our backs faced each other,

but never our faces.

The music began,
and I began to sway with it.

The melody travelled through
his body
the way it travelled through mine.

I turned my head,
only slightly,
and caught his smile.

We both knew
we were drawing closer.

Soon we were leaning against the bar,
our bodies angled toward one another.

I smiled.

He smiled.

He grabbed my hand
and pulled me closer.

I wish he didn’t.

We had a great day.

That’s why it ached more.

Haunted
by memories
that carry an entirely different
meaning to me.

The saddest part is,

I’m not sure
they ever meant
the same thing to him.

He kept showing up.

Part of me mistook
safety

for boredom.

At first.

Then,
he started making room for me.

Reading the same books
and discussing them
in our book club.

We rearranged his house together,

pulling the carpet
back and forth,

holding paintings
against the wall
to see where they fit best.

It was

domestic.

Warm.

He carried me
to his bedroom.

Later,
we left his house.

Walking down the street,
as I shared
my entire stream of thoughts,

I told him
he didn’t have to listen.

“But I like it,”
he said.

I even talked about it
on my podcast.

For the first time,
someone enjoyed,
rather than endured,
my endless stream of thoughts.

Slowly, he became
a sedative

to my nervous system.

I allowed myself
to grow accustomed
to the idea of him
being part of my life.

I wasn’t mourning
what was lost.

I was mourning
what could have been.

“If she came back
today,

would you choose her?”
I asked,

as we strolled
around Holland Park.

“Yes,” he said.

“I would choose her.”

My face couldn’t carry
what didn’t belong to it.

Perhaps.

I was heartbroken
by the disappearance
of a future

that had only ever existed

in a Turkish coffee reading.

A future

that was never ours,

only

foretold.

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