When it’s all over, I walk slowly up my creaking stares. I tiptoe like I did as a child, scared that I might wake someone but I know I can’t wake the dead.

My room is dark, lit only by a candle next to my bed, and what normally would feel gloomy felt comfortable. Peaceful. For once, my mind had gone silent.

I make my way to the window and sit. I remember looking out this window as a child, but...

When I first see her, I am behind her. She’s short, but not too short, and her skin looks like caramel. It’s smooth and it reminds me of warm brown sugar. But when she turns around, she’s become a warm cup of coffee. Light brown, with swirls of freshly poured cream that hasn’t yet been stirred. Even more beautiful than I could’ve imagined. At the first sight of her, I don’t know if I love her. But...

It’s a strange thing to be forgotten. It’s not an adjective, or a noun, or a verb. It’s not a feeling. And it’s not a saying. It’s a sense of being that absorbs every single part of you, even if it only lasts a moment.

In relationships, the act of being forgotten begins when someone bright and shiny comes along. Someone with whom your love has no history with, someone they haven’t fought with, a...