From my window, I used to watch people carrying on with their lives down the street. Every morning at 10:00 a.m. a young man and a woman kiss each other goodbye on the corner and then go their separate ways for the day. Every day, only one of them turns back and looks with a sense of helpless desire to the indifferent back of their lover. I’ll not reveal who turns back, for matters of love are never equal. Between two people, one of them always wants more, and none of the two can be blamed for it.
This remnant of this old memory came rushing back as I saw her going out of the door. I don’t want to believe it’s the end, but I know it is. Multiple years of married life. We don’t have kids. We didn’t buy a house. We have nothing that ties us together. I wonder if she would turn back once she closes the door, to look back. I am not sure if I would stay for a few more moments after the door closes.
It’s hard to say who loved who more. In a broken marriage, everyone is feeling that they are giving more. Everyone is feeling they are getting less. I don’t know if you will still remember, long after you moved away, who loved more and who got more. I don’t know if it even mattered. Love fades, as do memories of time together. The remnant of the moments spent together dreaming about the future feels fake. Or rather something that doesn’t hold any meaning now. Moments spent on figuring out why the other person is upset and trying to make things work feel like a waste. Energy spent on something that was never supposed to work. But remnants of the feeling of togetherness, the touch of the hand, the feel of the kiss, the sense of helpless desire looking at the indifferent back of the other person, linger. It stays somewhere.
PS: Fictional Piece.