I was not prepared. ‘God, I am so sorry!’ he wrote, helvetica letters etched across the screen of my phone. Shit. Why did I message him again?
She looked at me with that painfully annoying look like she was preparing to analyse a puzzling thought. Shadows from the tree outside danced over her face, the morning light brightening the white walls and reflected off the plastic plant that glistened near the window of her Scandinavian office. Psychological healing by design.
“Maybe write a letter and burn it as a symbol that you are prepared to move on?” All I could think of was her quizzical face. I disassociated.
“Move on from what?” I said while in a daydream trying to reach back to consciousness. It’s funny how you can still hear and think and speak outside of time and space.
“You never really had the chance to say what you wanted. You need to say it.” Read More