I planned my day and left you out of the routine, crossed you off every plan I had.
I filled my schedule with reminders not to think of you, those marked as important and everything. It seemed like a good idea; my goal for the day was to forget you.
The thing is, I’ve never been very good at taking my plans seriously. I wanted to forget you, but I ended up forgetting that I’m a bit scatterbrained.
I forgot the agenda, forgot the reminders. I just didn’t forget you. I left my plans in the drawer and stepped out of the house dressed in nostalgia for you.
I saw you in every street: in the silhouettes of those coming my way, even if they didn’t remind me of you at all. In the song playing in the grocery store.
In the couples enjoying ice cream in the middle of winter, even though I never invited you for ice cream.
In the perfume of that girl who rushed past me, probably late for something more interesting than anything I’ve done in this past week without you.
Forgetting you has been more exhausting than remembering you.
Remembering you is a finite number of moments we shared, which I can replay and replay, chew over and over again, in whatever way I want, and they will always remain the same.
Forgetting you is the problem. Because forgetting you means all the plans and meetings, the conversations and jokes, the outings, trips, bars, ice creams, and beers, and even those strange dishes you cook that we will never share again.
Forgetting you is thinking of everything we could have been and weren’t. Everything we could have lived but won’t.
Tomorrow, I will change the reminders. Tomorrow, I will do it differently. Tomorrow, I will remember you. I will remember you until I tire of it and no longer need to forget you.
I will remember you until I start remembering myself again.
