The lights flickered like fireflies.
I stared hard at my reflection, examining my weary eyes and blotchy complexion. I looked beaten, covered in scars with forlorn emotions to match. He was no longer part of my life, I reassured myself. Though he was gone, I could still feel him, lurking beneath the cracks. And that’s what scared me the most.
I turned away from my reflection and gazed at my bed, where my heels sat perched, waiting. In the background, lying innocently on the bedside table, the last remaining photo of us in existence remained.
We were lying on a crocheted picnic blanket with the sun shining down on our faces. My arms were outstretched, capturing the moment and his arms were crossed on his stomach from laughing. My face was illuminated and our eyes were on fire. Thinking back, I don’t even remember what we were laughing about. The memory seems so long ago, though it happened just over the summer.
I slipped the picture out of its frame and into fresh air for the first time in months and smiled. I set down the picture frame, simple and black, onto my table. It had never looked duller. It was lifeless, a ghost of what once was. Without the picture, the frame was just painted wood.
The photograph felt heavy in my palm and I trudged to my door, grabbing my black button up coat on the way. With it slung over my right arm, I opened my door and stopped, staring out into the dark hall. I gazed down, let out a deep, soulful breath, and let the picture slip through my fingers. It tumbled erratically, slicing the air with its sharp corners.
A part of me now severed, I watched the photo slowly flutter to the ground.