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(The prompts are in bold) We made it to and through the airport in record time. I’m not sure who set the quick pace, but we both kept it. We were eager to escape the crashing weight of our shattered friendship. Maybe there were cracks from the start we had been oblivious to, or maybe the disastrous trip was a fated wrecking ball, and we never stood a chance. Regardless, the friendship was now something unrecognisable. Her Uber pulled up first, and we shuffled to get her bags in while making hollow promises to text soon. The car drove off, her silhouette not turning back to wave, and grief, entwined with joy, reshaped our old memories. *** It’s been five days since I spoke to her. Not that I’m counting.
The familiar three-beep pattern jerk of the microwave downstairs jolts me awake, reminding me there’s still another person in this house. I imagine the unavoidable conversation waiting downstairs and I tuck myself deeper beneath my sheets.
Five days since the person I love most changed my life forever. I remember someone telling me the people we love most are the ones most capable of breaking us. I dismissed it as a tired cliché. I don’t anymore.
I stare at the pillow beside me, that hides not just my phone, but everything I’m running away from. My phone rings. I ignore it. Then I turn away and begin to cry. *** It still shocks you. The size of wedding ring, how effortlessly it slid onto your finger, how quickly you became left-handed. To be honest, marriage was never something you'd expected. The relationship coach you’d found on Instagram spent the majority of your hour-long session telling you that you needed to believe it was possible. You needed to write a list of all his attributes, so you could recognise him when he appeared. When she’d said that, you’d immediately regretted wasting your money. Still, to humour yourself, you took out a notebook, reached for your favourite pen, and when you started writing, you couldn't stop. You started at the shallow end. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Then you got deeper. God-fearing. Vulnerable. Emotionally intelligent. You stared at the page that was now covered with your cursive scrawls. You smiled and shook your head before turning off the bedside lamp. Two weeks later, when he walked into the conference auditorium in a crisp white shirt, when he stopped to scan the room, when his gaze met yours, you knew immediately.
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