For the first time it seems, I'm the one saying goodbye. This time, I'm the one staying behind. I'm the one who gets to see a loved one move further and further away from me. I can't help but to watch, and wait, and almost helplessly wish for him to turn back to me... his absence is clearly marked from my sight, yet I still can’t tear myself away from the very last spot I saw him from.
I know I should go, but my body refuses to move; my mind is not quite ready to accept that I have to count on memories to hold and keep me warm from now on; and my heart… my heart continues to beat, even though I feel it slow to an almost muted thump.
Finally, finally, I leave. Yet as I do, my feet drag, a sense of grievance settles over me, it's actually difficult to breathe from the ache pressing into my chest. No one seems to notice though, as they move about in accordance to their agendas. People pass me by like a STOP sign on the side of the road, completely ignoring my presence. And I know, the one person who does care, just had to walk away from me. So I too slip away, reluctantly though, and like all the strangers around me, I pretend I'm alright, that it doesn't feel wrong to be separated from someone who's come to mean so much to me, that I'm whole and a part of me did not just leave the country. The only problem left is that I’ve never been a good liar.