Although it’s been a while… I still think about you. My heart still races to hear the sound of your voice, and my fingers itch to hold you. I want to kiss you, deeply, and long, and beg forgiveness for all that I’ve ever done to you… Although I don’t deserve it.

I want to speak with you, but my voice is gone. No… it’s not gone, it’s just not mine anymore. I want to look at you with those eyes, those same eyes, and not these. I want to hold you in those arms that were mine. I want to be myself, with you, the way we were supposed to be. Not this… thing, that I am here, alone. Not without purpose, not without your memories of who I am.

Me… but I’m broken. Who am I? I’m not him, I’m not the one who loved you, not the one you loved, but I am. Sense is lost. He was different- he was whole, and perfect in his way. He knew what to do for you, and how to fix his mistakes. I argue with… myself, over everything. My broken pieces can’t make up their minds. What would I be worth to you, even if every shattered fragment of my mind loved you just as much as he did?

Sometimes I’m afraid… If I go back to you, will you want me? Will you hate me as I wanted you to? Have I made my own grave, trying to protect you? I don’t want to know. I just want you back… but I can’t have you.

Sometimes I’m angry- I don’t understand why I don’t think I deserve you. I don’t know why I can’t just go back, just tell you how I feel and accept no redemption. I don’t care, then, about redemption or forgiveness. I just care about having you again. Nothing else matters.

But then I remember that he had a life- there were friends there too. I miss them dearly… but I won’t send them a word. It only hurts for the dead to speak to the living. I’ve caused enough pain, enough problems. I don’t need to give them anymore.

I remember he belonged to that world. There was his place, his reputation. I wonder what happened to it now? Does anyone remember his name? Do you…? Should they even, when at the end he took the easy way to escape, and to just disappear? Should I return, and try to ease the troubled minds of those who didn’t understand and who regret that choice?

Still I sit here and do nothing. This demon that’s become of me denies to possibilities of return. This form of mine is unfit… is not the same as his, holds not the same soul as his. I know it’s him you loved, and never me. It’s him they cared for, never me. It’s him they all remember, nothing like me- but it can’t stop me from wondering…

Why does my reflection only look clear in a broken mirror?