The bitter after-taste

Staring at that old, dusty photo frame in her box full of junk, she suddenly realized that neither was it old nor was it junk. It hadn’t been long since that picture had been framed by her own little feminine hands and preciously been placed by her bed side. By their bedside. She lifted it up, wiped it and exactly on his face, fell the first tear she had shed in almost two years. She thought she was happy. The picture brought back memories she thought she had erased from her memory for good. She thought she was lucky enough to not have that replayed in her head again and again. She thought, running away was going to help.

She saw his distorted face through her tear drop and for a second, felt that her life was a scene of a movie. It all seemed that unreal. Then in a trail of thought she went, remembering tiny details and suddenly her angry kettle sharply cut through her thought process as though it was forbidden to think anymore of him. She took the frame in her hands into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of tea and cleaned the frame with a damp cloth. The brown dust suddenly vanished, bringing a shine onto the frame that probably would never be back in her life again. He was that shine. He was the gloss, of her glass like life. Fragile, sensitive. And he… He shattered it. It wasn’t really his fault. Or hers, as a matter of fact. She sipped her tea and looked at the smiles and radiation and love that the picture held together so tightly. So tightly that she still couldn’t let go. Let go not just of the frame, but her love for him.

“Please come back.” She said.

He opened his eyes, to another morning. He looked next to him on the bed at a beautiful girl. No, it wasn’t the one that was there yesterday morning. It’s not the one he was with day before. Or before that. A new one. Now, an old one.

“Please come back.” He said.

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