When I try to recall you, you come back to me in pieces. I can’t picture your face like I used to, it’s different now. Maybe it’s better this way, maybe we both needed this. I know you would disagree, I knew you’d figuratively bang your fist on the table and yell at me that it’s not what we needed, it’s what I want. But I only wanted it because it was needed. The smell of your cologne, I still catch a whiff of it sometimes. And my eyes scan the place, even though it’s highly unlikely that they’d find you there. Then sometimes I see my bookshelf and my eyes fall on a book you gifted me, my mind reeling back to days, to moments. Flipping through the memories at the speed of a hundered miles per hour, the intensity still as hard. Love isn’t supposed to bind you, it’s supposed to set you free. And we stopped doing that for each other, after a particular time. It was impossible to accept for you, I had finally found the courage, and you hated me for it. I flip through my old journals, I had showered the pages with your praises. When I see someone else’s palm, I reminisce how there were so many lines on yours. How they matched with the ones on my palm, making me believe we would actually end up together. I think of you when someone hands me a mug of coffee because you made faces but made coffee for me anyway. I still have your red t-shirt, I refuse to throw it away. I would, like you threw away so many things that remind you of me, but I refuse to because it doesn’t trigger me. It’s a reminder of how we had good times even though things ended in an ugly place. I wish you knew I didn’t hate you like you thought I did, and that I’m not as cold as you believe I am. But maybe, just maybe, it’s okay because it makes things easier for you. I’ve learnt it’s possible to miss someone and not want them back. It’s possible to love someone, yet not like them anymore.