I saw a quote she uploaded and believed it was meant for me, again, reminded by how much I miss her. When she walks past me in the streets, I’m a ghost, non existent, her eyes focused on what’s in front of her, the way it’s always been. I talk to her for hours in my head, sometimes pretending that she might hear me and imagining what she might answer. She appears in my dreams, and often when I wake I’m convinced I see her standing at the corner of my room, shaming me for being such a terrible friend. Perhaps I’ll someday write a poem about her, and it will be just as beautiful as her and our friendship before everything happened. Perhaps I’ll write about the way her hair always curled in the rain, and the way her laugh made me convinced that there truly was something worth living for. Maybe I’ll try to put into words the ways her eyes sparked when she was truly happy and the way they made you want to fight the world when she cried. I pretend to have forgotten the picture I’ve uploaded of the two of us, hoping that there will always be a reminder of what we had. Writing everything else instead of writing in my novel, because my head is too full of thoughts about past mistakes and future turmoils. But most often I think of her, and the way she took over my soul and heart and coldly left, yet remained in the depths of it all. And as I sit here, looking at the light on the end of my cigarette, I believe that there will never exist a flame that burns as bright as my love for her. Perhaps I sound like a desperate past lover, but all I felt for her was pure and true, but never strong enough for her.