Fiction

Weekends


As the lights gradually dimmed and as the day faded into the night, I sat by my window, staring into space. I was dreaming with my eyes open. I was remembering, with no signs of nostalgia. I was not poignant. Just deep in thoughts, of the dreams I have had. Weekends are depressing. As this thought creeps into my mind, I hear an echo of your laughter, ringing in my ears. Reminding me of what we shared. Those stolen weekends, the utter abundance and the shared resigned looks on Mondays. I smile, privately, afraid someone might know what I am thinking. And then I pause and laugh as I realise I am all alone, in my corner, away from the prying eyes of the world.

But you can see me, right? You can see me better than anyone else. Then why didn’t you pause? Why didn’t you stop? As I stood there, trembling and shaking with anger, feeling betrayed, why didn’t you offer an explanation? Why didn’t you let me cry on your shoulder?

I shrug as I realise I failed again. I just can’t seem to be able to remember you without pain.

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