avwashere

Latest Posts by avwashere

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

Last one.

So I held on to the idea that none of it was real.

You weren’t real.

You disappeared.

And I took that as your answer.

But if you were—if even for a moment you were real—

then I have nothing else to say, except:

I hope you see the color yellow every time you look into the eyes of the person who makes you happy.

As of today:

“My lips are zipped.”

(for real this time.)

The soft kind of letting go.

I haven’t said it out loud, but I think I’m done waiting.

It’s been weeks.

He hasn’t come back. Not really.

I still think about that last day.

How it felt like a slow fade.

No door slammed. No final word.

Just… silence.

And now he’s somewhere else.

With someone else.

Maybe laughing the way he did with me.

Maybe not even remembering me at all.

I didn’t expect closure.

But I didn’t expect to feel this invisible either.

Tonight, I won’t text him in my head.

I won’t play the playlist.

I’ll just write.

Fold this page, and tuck it between the others.

This is me letting go.

Softly. Quietly. Like he left.

Notes I never meant to share.

“Pretty name.”

“I wouldn’t want to forget it.”

That’s what you said.

It’s funny now, in a bitter kind of way.

Because you did forget it.

Or maybe you didn’t—but you chose to act like you did.

That’s just as bad.

I don’t know.

It’s been days. Weeks.

And I can’t keep holding on, even if I want to.

I could twist this in my head a thousand ways.

I could wonder if that day you sent me that first message, you sent it to other people too.

I could ask myself why my disappearance for three days was enough to make you vanish for good, as if that’s all it took for you to stop caring.

Or maybe you never did.

Maybe I never mattered enough for you to even try

to understand my reasons. (I gave them to you—

but it’s fine. I get it. You had to protect your feelings.)

And still… I wonder what would’ve happened

if I hadn’t replied to your message.

You know I almost didn’t.

But here we are.

Or… not anymore.

Too late.

Back when.

"Kinda rude that Lorde released Liability. Why would you go off like that."

Yes. Of course I saw that tweet.

And yes, of course you deleted it.

(Still, I memorized it.)

—

I remember the smell of cheap frosting.

The dress that dug into my shoulders.

How I laughed without meaning it—because that’s what was expected of me.

"The cake was pink, the kids were loud, and Lucy smiled all day. That’s what matters."

And yet, while I watched her smile, I could feel everything slipping away already.

Like being in a room full of people but with no air.

I didn’t text you.

I didn’t ask if the tweet was about me.

I said nothing when I knew you wouldn’t either.

Found in the margins.

He tweeted "2009".

I don't know, I'm overthinking. Again.

That's the kind of song you play when something's ended. When you're tired.

When you miss something you're not even sure was ever real.

And I hate how much I understand.

I saw it.

I read the lyrics again.

And it hit me like a wave:

You're sad?

You?

You were the one who left me on read.

You were the one who watched me unravel in silence.

You were the one who joked with every other girl while I waited.

I should be the one tweeting sad songs.

I am the one who cried on the bus.

I am the one who replayed your voice saying "pretty" like it was poetry.

I am the one who counted days. Hours. Silences.

But sure. Go ahead. Be sad.

—

I almost texted you today.

Almost.

Just to say:

"Did you mean any of it?"

But then I stopped myself.

Because if I have to ask...

I already know the answer.

From the archives.

A memory in ink.

Just something I wrote a while ago.

It was too soon.

No, wait.

Was it?

Because I started thinking of him when I woke up.

Wondering what song he'd share next.

What he'd say if I told him I like the way he says "petal" — like it's a secret nickname only he gets to use.

He said pretty.

And for a second, I swear the world stopped. That's the closest I've been to breathless in a very long time.

"You feel like a memory I never made, but always carried."

(I read that somewhere. Now it’s all I can think when he texts me.)

I shouldn't feel this much.

It's too soon.

But—

Why do you feel so familiar?

Why do I feel like I already miss you even when we're still talking?

I listened to Lady May again today.

It still sounds like the memory of a memory.

And Feathered Indians—I played it while dancing in the kitchen. Barefoot.

Laughing at nothing.

He teases me about Lorde like it's our own inside joke.

I let him.

(He doesn't know every song reminds me of him now.)

"Don't you think it's too soon?"

"Ava, slow down."

"You barely know him."

I know.

I know.

I know.

But something in me is afraid he'll leave before I figure out what this is.

Before I get to ask him:

Are you feeling it too? Or is it just me?

I'm trying not to hope.

But hope is loud.

Louder than fear some days.

And today... today it won.