Love is a creature of habit.

Copyright Julia Bydulia.

I know exactly what this is about, but I won't admit it.

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Yes, when I picture that day, I see those wispy, smoky clouds dumping buckets upon buckets of water on our heads. I see you clinging those pizza boxes to your chest and looking for the dumpster. I see him, all cocky smirks and cigarettes. I can see it all as if I'd just gotten home, and my hair was still wet.

A memory like mine if a gift and a curse, some might say. I know the smell of the wet gravel in the parking lot and of the mud that we kicked up. The feel of the dirt that stuck to me with a little help from the rain.

The thing is, I don't always remember everything. It comes back to me in bits and pieces. Strips that I have to reassemble and make into one coherent thought, as if someone had taken my life and put it through a paper shredder. (Which, in essence, is what happened.)

I remember you.

I don't think I'll ever forget that day, though I'm still not sure what most of it meant. I'm highly confused most of the time, but, I don't usually like to show it. You confuse me, and so does he, but, I don't like telling anyone. I like to look smart, even when I'm dumb. And I can be very dumb.

I remember the rest of them.

No one else seemed to care that the three of us were building walls, walking in circles while they worked and ran to finish what had barely been started. We were bundled up in jackets and our own self assurances. They didn't look twice, and I sure as hell didn't want them to.

I want to be able to say all of the things that I felt then. I remember all of the feelings all too well and all too often. But, I keep them locked up on a cage in my chest, tearing me apart and holding me together at the same time.

Love is a creature of habit. And so are we.