Letters, chargers and the kiss that wasn’t

Walking away from the coach station, he felt anything but satisfied. In fact, it had been a tumultuous weekend, not because anything dramatic or devastating had occurred but quite simply because; he had been himself.
But he hadn’t expected anything different. Her expression flatlining, practiced but blatantly fragile apathy raging, distances building slowly but surely.
It was almost unsurprising that for two people who could not stop talking, conversation had dried up, disintegrated like the very autumn leaves surrounding them.
Anecdotes they traded, jokes the shared, silence they enjoyed in the comfort of each other’s heartbeats had been replaced by ambient sounds.
Walking away from the coach station he felt anything but satisfied. Sitting down in a coffee shop smiling weakly at the thought of hot chocolate, he pulled out the letter he had written.
Slowly, he tore it apart, albeit neatly, until the words no longer meant anything. The pieces just lay there, irreparable. Destroyed.

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One comment on “Letters, chargers and the kiss that wasn’t

  1. Erika says:

    You write such beautiful things 😦

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