“Sometimes I feel like you’re not even listening to me.”

 

I guess that’s true. I can’t remember who your after-school-activity mates are. I can’t remember who you work with in class. I don’t remember some of the stories you told me.

 

But what I do remember is how you made me feel. The things that made you different from the rest of the people around me. The things you did that made me love you.

 

I remember the way your fingers fit between mine right from the beginning. I remember how you looked at me when I fell almost deathly sick. I remember how clingy you are when you’re tired, and how much I loved it. I remember how you walked me home every night you could. I remember the imprint of your lips on mine.

 

I remember your voice in my ear, low and steady. I remember the warmth of your body next to mine as we dozed on buses and snuggled in the half-asleep haze of mornings and nights. I remember your heartbeat, underneath my palm, the whoosh of the mechanical fault in its walls.

 

I remember feeling fear, of losing you.

 

But there’s no point me telling you I love you when it wouldn’t change a thing.

 

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