Sometimes, I think I miss you.
Waking up this morning, the scent of your favorite wild berry mint shampoo seemed to waft in from nowhere. I wasn't sure why, really. It's been ages since you left me. It's been long enough that the company making it went out of business.
Now that I think about it, maybe you were the only one keeping them in business. I hadn't seen anyone else buy that scent before. I still haven't used up the bottle you left in my shower. It's just been sitting there this whole time...
It'd feel wrong to use it now. I don't think I could, even if I wanted to. I think it'll just live there forever. I can't just throw it away, either. It's a perfectly good bottle of shampoo.
<center><a onclick="story.show('2')">NEXT</a></center>Anyways, it's weird, seeing the little things you left behind. Even the things that aren't tangible.
I got my cup of coffee, and I see the coffee grinder you made me get. You always preferred buying whole beans, and grinding them fresh. I remember you told me they tasted better like that. Something about the flavor seeming fresher? I tried it and didn't see much of a difference, but you seemed so excited to show me how good it was that I just nodded and agreed with you. Then I had to grind coffee beans for you every morning.
(I don't buy whole beans anymore. I don't see much of a point, since the pre-ground stuff tastes the same, anyways, and it's cheaper.)
I see the couch we dragged together off a curb and somehow fit into your car when we first moved in. It's a miracle that it didn't have any bedbugs. The tied fleece blanket tossed over it is one you got as a present from your little brother for Christmas. It has a saccharine kitten pattern plastered all over it. Despite it being from the year we got kicked out of your parents house because you got high beforehand and started beating me in front of them, and it being unimportant enough to you that you left it behind when you screeched off in that damn junker for the last time, I kind of like it.
<center><a onclick="story.show('3')">NEXT</a></center>I look in the mirror. My dark circles are more prominent than they were when I first met you, and I've started greying a little. You'd probably call me an old hag as a joke if you were still alive.
I can't say I'd blame you. I feel like I aged ten years in the span of three, complete with all the random aches and pains.
I look down at my ribs, and there's a fading white scar, from when you waved a kitchen knife wildly around during an argument and managed to slice my skin open.
You begged me not to call the police. I didn't. I was scared of losing you. Even now, with you gone, I'm still scared of losing you.
<center><a onclick="story.show('4')">NEXT</a></center>There's really no point to my musings, I think. It's not like you can hear me. I guess it's just weird, knowing you died of an overdose in the arms of some random guy, and seeing all these things you left behind.
It's like, seeing a broken window that hasn't been fixed, and worrying you might step on the glass shards, but you look down and the floor's pristine. I don't know how else to describe it.
<center><div id="fin">FIN.</div><center>
<center><a onclick="story.show('1')">REREAD?</a></center>
made by med using twine's snowman story format.