I knew. I knew he was slowly forgetting me. If I asked him what my favourite colour was, there was no doubt he'd answer incorrectly. And it would just be embarrassing if I asked when my birth date was.
But I couldn't complain. It was beginning to become difficult to remember the colour of his eyes, or how his fingers felt intertwined with my own.
Maybe it was my fault.
Because when I had his fingers wrapped in my own, did I cherish it? Because I know when our relationship started dwindling I had already forgotten how he smelt, before he had even left. But did he ever really leave? Or did I leave?
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Short Stories
Historia CortaAlmost 200 short stories to get your blood pumping, your skin crawling and your mind racing. Nostalgic, interesting, current, real-life experiences in a creative form. *disclaimer: some of these short pieces reference issues such as mental illness...
