Each year on this day, I check my phone more than usual. Not for party texts or dinner plans. But because this is the day you should remember me. The one day you might write. Or call. Or show up. Like I always imagined you would. It’s the day I let belief in you have one more chance. My wish: for you to break the silence. But each year I grow older, and your absence stretches longer. No message. No name I know. Just the dull thud of hope hitting the floor. There was a time when love lingered. When we all stayed a little longer after goodbye. As friends. Love, I’ve learned, is not subtractive. It does not take, it gives for as long as we embrace it— even after you’ve gone. Love adds up quietly in the accounting of who we’ve been. The more I remember, the more I learn: what I gave and what I withheld. What I offered and what I could not hold. What I needed and where I searched. All of it adds to me. And adds to you. Now, it seems each goodbye is a closing door with no knob on my side.
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I came back to have what I once had, to unlock for someone what she also unlocks in me, and that neither of us can unlock alone.
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Does it cost extra to stay in a haunted hotel when the power goes out? Did we get upgraded?
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