Going

Do not go.

My silent voice is chanting that over and over and over again. All I can think of is:

Do not leave.

Do not make me say farewell one last time.

Do not walk away.

Do not go.

But she does. She always does. She is already turned away from me at this point. Already looking off into the distance. Her future. Without me in it, of course. If I was in it, in anyway, even the most inconsequential of parts, I would be content. But I am not. I am nothing.

She walks away from me without even looking back once. My breath hitches. I stumble back, my clunky feet gliding against the gravely sand. Gliding is not the right word — I tumble back in a controlled manner. I do not fall but I almost wish I had. At least then it would have felt like something happened, instead of this muted parting that did happen.

We were lovers, we were mates, we were something, should there not be more to a breaking apart?

Maybe. Maybe not.

It does not matter.

She walks away and I am left standing on some beach. That never changes.

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