Love in the Bubble 300

On forgetting the name of your dog

I started to wear my favourite perfume again. It is citrusy, and my mom gifted it to me, but I stopped using it for a year because whenever I did, I expected to find you sitting next to me. I wore vanilla for a while. I liked it less, but at least I was not haunted by ghosts.

I would spy on your life like a child outside a candy shop. The new city, the new job, the new girl. And what about me? On my side of the fence, I was stuck. Couldn’t move forward, couldn’t move back. At night, I wrote lists of things I liked, just to remind myself I existed outside of what I was feeling.

What I did not expect, though, was that my life would go on too. They told me, but I didn’t believe them. Still, I got into my dream university. I travelled across Europe with my best friends and discovered how useful it is, my ability to sleep on buses. My family adopted two kittens. When I’m home, I tell them all my secrets. The people around me are smart and kind and inspiring. They make me want to get up and do things, important things, things that will make a difference. I am so excited for myself. It feels both wrong and exhilarating.

And there’s a truth I don’t like to admit: I have started to forget you. The name of your grandma. Your dogs. I believed I knew your favourite football team, but my dad corrected me the other day. “Impossible,” I said, “I would know,” but I checked, and he was right. It scares me. Part of me never wants to let you go. But I also welcome it with relief.

Every day I receive so much love that it spills out of my pockets and colours my shoes. It stains every step I make in this town. And luckily, it is not from you.

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Illustration by Elizabeth Lang