Page 37 of Don’t Forget Me

Gosh, even thinking of his name made me nauseous.

“I have to go. I’m sorry,” I said.

My response was docile and calm. But that wasn’t the emotion I felt; I had a deep and powerful rage. How I wished I could smash his face in as Aldair scowled at me. If he so much as tightened his grasp around my wrist, I would send his chair flying across the café. But I didn’t want to defile such a sacred space. I also didn’t wish to disturb the other customers in the coffee shop.

Everything that I had built with this man would be for nothing. All of the time that I had spent with him would only be in vain. I believed that was why I held onto him for so long. I couldn’t make a life with the person I wanted since I was seventeen. I tried to force chemistry with someone who seemed to fit my ideals. Oh, how wrong I had been in thinking that about Aldair.

I realized, as I pushed away from him, that I had an important choice to make.

eighteen

LYSANDRA

It had been a chilly October evening in Edinburgh. The streets were foggy, umbrellas hung atop the heads of my Scottish companions, and the stones beneath were laced with rain. As I tilted my chin upward, I noticed the way the orange leaves swayed in the air. My boots clicked with each step. The scarf around my neck shielded me from the cold. I brought it up to my lips and held tighter onto my umbrella and my hot coffee cup.

I’d been walking around St. Andrew’s Square. The sun was setting, and the sky was painted amber. Golden lights flashed with every glance.

Then, I saw a black iron bench situated at the center of the square. The bench was facing the tall monument before it. The same place where Ezra and I had been sitting at, many years ago. I couldn’t forget that night. I didn’t think I ever would.

I had uncovered myself in a way I never had before, and since then, I was never the same.

I came to visit this place often. As if I could relive a faded memory. I watched as the holograms of our youth appeared. How I hated that he slipped through my fingers like sand, that he was an apparition of my dreams. I let out a breath, as if I could exhale the pressure in my chest.

Is this what love felt like? Because I hated it.

I felt like I was a ghost visiting the scene of my death. The beginning of my decomposition.

Despite the length of years, I still held onto my dusty green journal. Its pages had been worn at the edges, and the cover had been peeling. I’d done what I could to keep my thoughts on the pages from decaying.

I flipped through the beige sheets. Only a few empty spaces left for me to fill. The emotions I felt this moment seemed fitting for me to unload my pain all over notebook. And so, I began my writing ritual.

Occasionally, I would lift my eyes to glance at the strollers around the square. A gust of wind pierced my back as I runed the vellum below me.

Taking a sip from my coffee, inserting an earbud into my ear, and forcing back the tears that fought to slip.

But it was my own fault. I was the one who harbored a broken heart within me. Like a pathological masochist, I frequently visited the site where Ezra and me created a deep bond with one another.

There had been a magnetic force that caused me to look up, and my pen slowed. I spotted the person who had been haunting my nights since our departure, five years ago. He had been standing by the grand monument, his hands tucked in the pockets of his black trench coat.

His expression had been still. I caught him mid-thought before his eyes widened and his lips gaped. He jolted. I watched as he gulped, then sauntered toward me.

He claimed the space beside me with hesitation, perhaps unsure whether he could stay within my proximity.

White puffs left my lips as I spoke, “What brings you to this side of town?”

“A ghost from the past.”

He read my mind.

I swiftly closed my notebook. I knew that he noticed when his azure stare locked on the ink stains scattered across my palms.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Ezra enunciated, motioning his chin toward the book in my grasp. I moved it closer to my chest, extending my arm over it.

“No,” I replied.

Ezra hummed and switched his gaze to the tall statue before us. He wasn’t going to insist. Good, because then he would know that I was writing about him.

Or maybe he wouldn’t.