My friends never liked you and I can’t blame them. They were happy when I finally got you out of my system. Unfriended, blocked, and deleted. If they knew you crossed my mind once again, there’ll be an intervention. I can hear their nagging types on their keyboard until our chat boxes are filled with text bubbles of the same colors. Zoom calls with eyes piercing through pixelated boxes, non-judgmental but concerned looks. Because they’ve seen this film before, they hated the ending. The last thing they want is a bad sequel.
Do you remember how we met? The memory of that night is a little fuzzy but I remember the scent of your cologne mixed with the Marlboro clinging on your shirt. I remember the taste of your lips and the sweet drops of Red Horse on your tongue. The next thing I knew, my hands were exploring your skin, fingers tracing your neck then trapped in the tangles of your hair. If you asked me what happened moments before, I forgot. Our bodies got lost at that moment.
Waking up felt like a dream. You were never mine but you held me as if to say that I should have a little faith. Our moments were safe behind locked doors. No one will ever know the stories behind our smiles, what our hands have touched, and how your body curls when you laid next to me. But that’s it no one ever knew because that’s what you wanted. Adjusting to your moves was hard yet I tried.
When you smiled, I had to look away. Head down, pretend I don’t want to lock eyes. You’ll place your hand on someone else’s lap and I have to accept that my turn will come later that night. Because you were never mine. My friends hated me for that fact, knowing that I willingly became your secret. I never listened or bothered to care. Your attention was all I need to make my heart beat a little faster. High on stolen stares and coded conversations –we had a world of our own. But I was the fool who thought that we were starring in the greatest love story that will ever be told. You convinced me to star in it not knowing who else is on the casting list.
Behind the aesthetic cinematography and teasing close-ups was a script you wrote alone. Each scene captured a love story that was never ours. Your hands holding hers, twirling around the room while we spent lonely nights behind four walls far from town. She had bright lights, meanwhile, my shots were cold and dark you could barely see us. No one will ever know the girl you’re holding in the shadows. I was in every scene with you. An extra, a background character you never thought of writing about.
There was no ending for us. We were laughing then the next thing I knew, I was cut out. I spent the next few years watching the movie you made, hoping to find a cameo of our moments –but it was never our story, to begin with. You already planned to cut my name off the credits because I was never meant to be part of it.
Don’t worry, I’ve moved on. There’s no sequel planned, no recasts, or a recreation of the set where we first met. I’m not writing because I miss you. This is the only way I can hurt you too. In my stories, you were the villain or a curse that ruined the flow. You stopped existing in my words. In between verses and metaphors, you have no power. There is nothing here that you can twist, erase, or hide. You were never mine. I should’ve known that earlier then maybe I would’ve had a better role.