Every year, I think about you. Not too many times, but consistently, a few times. And each time I am not sure how I should feel. There is a vague sense of loss, a subtle tinge of abandonment, a painful realisation of independence. But mostly, there is just a numb nothingness.
Who were you? I am not even sure I remember your face. Your smile, yes. Your eyes, too. But in pieces, in context. I can't imagine your reaction in a new situation. I can't see you as you may have become. I can only see the frozen moments that I have embalmed in my head.
I wonder if you feel the need to see me. If you imagine what it may feel like to talk to me now. If you wish you had known me all this time. If I am even a real person to you. If you have convinced yourself that I don't exist.
Perhaps it isn't as simple as moving on, as erasing, as avoiding. Maybe it's an intense removal, a complete denial.
I don't hate you. I don't love you. It's an absence of anything tangible. It's a murmur that never reverberates, never leaves the lips, never resounds. It's not even a feeling.
You were, you were not. The difference between loving and forgetting isn't that much.