Memories

I accepted without thinking. I read everything he posted. I never liked a single post. Three years later, I still don’t dare write to him, but I think of him every night.

The hallway was silent, his door ajar. I knew I shouldn’t go in. I went in anyway.

I went to the airport in a red dress that was too tight, with a secret between my legs. That night, the red got into our skin, our mouths, everything.

She showed up without warning at the start of the semester and from the first day she looked at me without shame. I didn’t know when I started needing her to do it.

If they had told us that morning we would end up in a room with a mirror on the ceiling, neither of us would have believed it.

She lied in front of everyone in the parking lot to get into my car. Before we left the city, she’d already found my hand. And I didn’t want to go home like that either.

I walked twelve kilometers in broken heels and blood-soaked stockings, determined to confess something I should never have felt.

I recognized her at the top of the hill. Seven years had passed, and she looked at me like she knew I’d be there that Saturday. What happened after that should never have happened.

He was focused on the game, the mic was open, his friends were on the other end. I walked in barefoot, unheard, and knelt down.

Four weeks without seeing him. Four weeks trying to erase the memory of other hands. That night, April became someone she no longer recognized.