heart shaped glasses

partie trois || part three

The last time I should ever hear of my tragic first love again. Hear being the main word.

That day, I went out with my friends. It was an average outing, we were eating food and gossiping about the year. But because I hadn't seen them in awhile, I was missing the happiness I only seem to have with them.
We get off the bus and head into the watering hole for our small suburb. More specifically, heading towards MacDonalds. That's when my eyes catching a peculiar sight: IT was pointing straight at me. And of course the two beloveds standing next to me caught this and looked.
That's when Emily saw him.
Standing, crowded in the middle of (at least) twenty people. Apparently looking tall and happy and youthful.
"Oh my god, he's here"
Emily says, shock running through her.
My heart stopped. Life froze. I was stuck, between a rock and a hard place. The hard place being looking at him, the rock being not. But I chose to run through the rock, demolishing it to ashes.
I didn't look.

But the truth is: I don't know what I would have done if I looked.
Would I stare at him until he left?
Would I march over there and slap him in the face?
Would I cry?
Would I fall to my knees in front of him, pouring my heart out with sad poetry?
Would I quietly whisper broken passages from Shakespeare as I walk away?

There's not a day that goes by the I regret not looking. I finally did something for myself.
After almost four years of writing sad poems of longing, I gave myself clarity.

This shall be the last time you hear of my first love, I am sure of it.