I haven’t forgotten.
I haven’t forgotten who we were, what we were or the life we led.
It’s still there, in the back of my mind.
And it moves forward whenever I see an old photo of us somewhere hidden between those of them.
I think back to that life.
Of how young and carefree we were.
Of us being everything and anything to each other.
Of us living and breathing what we wanted, when we wanted and how we wanted.
I think about the Sunday morning lie-ins and the freedom we had to explore things in our own time, in each other’s time, in the seemingly endless time.
It was so different.
We were so different.
You used to be the first one I’d see in the morning and the last one I’d see at night.
The comfort was only ours to have.
And there was such comfort in that. In knowing that. In everything about that.
Now the comfort is spread. It’s most often found with them, and for them.
Every morning, every night and every moment in between.
And that’s how it should be.
To them, and to each other.
And I wouldn’t change a thing.
But I haven’t forgotten, and I won’t ever forget, the life before this life.
Of the two of us, before them.
Of the ups and downs, the constant.
Of our love, which came first.
One day we will again converse in full sentences, wake only to the sounds of each other and have the other’s hand free to hold.
And one day our eyes will again meet more often, our shoulders will touch when we sit on the same couch and we will talk at length with all the time we have about missing the empty spaces between us.
But until then, know that I haven’t forgotten.
That part of our life is what got us here, and got us them.
And so do you.