A Short Story (The Prelude)

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“It was never something I expected to keep, this love of yours.”

He spoke the words aloud in his apartment, but nobody was there to hear them. She was gone, and had been gone for quite some time. And that … well, that was his own doing.

There’s a specific volume control setting on speakers, the one that borders between too loud for the neighbors and too soft for your own ears, the one where the bass is two steps beyond beginning to resonate—present but not overwhelming, adding life to that song on your playlist.

And presently, it was overwhelming.

The hardest part of losing someone you love is one-fourth when you keep your love for them, one-fourth when they keep their love for you, and one-half when you keep your love for each other. It’s a recipe not easily forgotten.

The things he should’ve thrown away—or thought he did—were still there. The emails. The texts. The photos. Damn, the photos.

And then, there are the things he couldn’t even drink away. The movies, the songs, the memories of phone conversations so inextricably intertwined with places they would now only visit separately … or with someone else.

As he walked to the kitchen, the sound of sirens made their evening appearance. They were a regular occurrence but they were always in the distance, signaling to him that he must be living in the right spot. They were always far enough away to remind him that troubles existed. Just not at his doorstep.

He poured his usual and took his place on the couch. Bare feet propped on the coffee table and glass carefully resting against his jeans-covered leg, he opened his well-used notebook to a blank page. The writing that was to be done wasn’t necessarily meant to be seen. Ever. But, it was necessary that the words be written. He began writing.

It was never something I expected to keep, this love of yours.

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