Fade
Micro fiction.
I should start by saying I am sorry.
The problem is—I’m not.
I could say I am sorry for how things turned out.
For the way it looks.
For the consequences.
But that’s not remorse.
That’s posture.
—
I could tell you about my broken childhood.
You’d understand me better.
Maybe even feel something for me.
Empathy. Pity.
I don’t want that.
I don’t deserve it.
—
People remember their first love.
Where they met.
How it felt.
The first touch.
The first night.
I remember.
Every detail.
And every time I do, something inside me turns.
—
She worked at a café.
She smiled when she handed me my coffee.
Her fingers brushed mine.
She giggled.
I kept going back for that.
For the giggle. The touch.
—
I didn’t speak to her.
Ever.
I watched.
From a distance.
Made sure she got home.
Told myself that meant something.
That it was care.
—
Then someone else appeared.
She chose him.
Stayed with him.
Even when she shouldn’t have.
—
I stayed.
Watched.
Waited.
Told myself I knew her better.
That only I understood her.
That I loved her like nobody.
—
It didn’t end well.
You already know that.
—
I remember the quiet after it happened.
More than anything else.
The warmth against my fingers.
Gone too quickly.
I remember.
Not the moment.
Not the noise.
Just what came after.
Stillness.
—
I went home.
Ran the bath.
Sat in it fully dressed.
Cold water.
Long enough to feel nothing.
—
She was my first.
Nobody after her felt the same.
It fades.
It always does.
The void hurts the most.
—
That’s the part people get wrong.
What’s terrible is this.
Not the act.
Not the reason.
The fading.
-ck
—
A short piece of fiction.