The pain comes back sometimes, of losing him.
The soft lamplight will hit the bed sheets in a certain way and he’ll be there again, sitting against the wall and softly strumming his butter-yellow guitar, his dark hair brushing his cheeks, quiet lyrics thrumming through the air.
He sang only beautiful songs. Melodic and sweet, the light spilling over elegant fingers that had played since he was a child.
He’ll glance up in a moment, give me a half grin, and continue singing.
I know I made this choice. To let him go when he wanted to leave.
To fight would have made it ugly, after all.
I didn’t want us to be ugly.
It’s easier to write stories now, of epic love in other realms, of love that flows so deep and vibrant it will never run out, never wear down, and never walk away.
I hung up my life in the closet beside my wedding gown. I shut the wardrobe door and I walked away.
But the pain comes back.
When I was twenty-two, I ran away to Prague, where I now sing to my black cat (who collects dustballs in her whiskers), eat chocolate for breakfast, and have lemon tarts every Thursday.
Sonya Lano 
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