Bookmark #170

The more I think about it, and trust me, love, I do that a lot, I think I clearly remember when I stopped loving you, and no, it wasn’t when I said I did. It was much, much before that. It was when I was telling you about this shoebox I had once upon a time. That I called it “the shoebox of memories”.

I remember telling you that I kept every tiny object that made me who I am today in it. Until, the box started to overflow, and so I decided to let it all go, but not until I took photos of everything, before I threw it in the can. I remember I was showing you the album instead. It’s hazy now, but I could see you listening intently, and I mean, why wouldn’t you or anyone?

But then, I saw your disinterested eyes, and so, I let the shoebox fade away into the conversation. Before I knew it, we were talking about how great the pasta was in that café overflowing with blinding white furniture and pastel pink flowers. It looked posh on the outside, quite perfect, really, but the pasta didn’t taste as good. I lied that day when I said the pasta was perfect or when I said I loved you.

I’m not sure why I did that, but I know why I stopped talking about the shoebox. It wasn’t because of your disinterest in it, which, I’m not even sure was there. It was because I realised I was stuck in the past and everything that had happened before. As much as I had let the shoebox go and put it on my phone, I was still amidst those trinkets, revelling in the stories of the old, and who I was and could’ve been.

I believe you realised that on the cab ride home too. After that, it was us fighting all the time. It was you berating me for hours. It was me not talking to you at all. I’d tell you of my drab day, and nothing more, and you’d tell me of yours. A cliché!

I think it all goes back to that day. I wonder what would’ve happened if we’d talked about that instead of the pasta. I think about that a lot every time I’m making some. I clicked a photo of it the other day and added it to the album on my phone—I barely check it now—I just add things to it out of habit.

Truth be told, I scrolled through it the other day, and I had forgotten half the stories. I wonder if that means something.