Alien piece
In the puzzle named our love story, I was the alien piece. Our history was everything but right. We were pieces from different puzzles. Too opposite to each other. I tore parts of myself to fit, while he forced himself to fill the empty spaces. It wasn’t a nightmare, but beautifully painful because it was wrong from the start. I tried to merge our paths, but a puzzle will never be completed when the wrong pieces are matched.
It hit me two months after our breakup. I convinced myself for weeks that it was for the greater good. But even after physical separation and all avoidance, some part of me still hoped to see him again. And I hate myself for it.
One night, as I was heading back home, he happened to be across the street. He looked different, not dramatically, but he looked…fine. He stood beside his bike, eyes glued to his phone. He carried something calmer; the bags under his eyes were lighter. And somehow, my heart raced at the sight of him.
So, I did the obvious; I turned away to leave. But before I could, something caught my attention. I turned my neck and looked back. I wish I didn’t.
A woman came to him with a huge smile. They didn’t exchange any physical contact, but his look was enough for me. One look was enough. He looked at her the same way he did with me. I hated how his smile was softer than I remembered. Feeling my heart in my throat, I wanted to look away.
Goodness, they looked lovely.
She fit perfectly in his arms as he wrapped his hands around her. Anyone could tell they had a story by a glimpse. And I was one of them. I was supposed to be happy for him, but hot tears fell before I could convince myself. So, I forced a smile and watched them fulfill the dream we failed.
“I’m happy for you,” I whispered, clenching my shirt.
I looked at them one last time and finally turned away.
It hit me two months after our breakup. I convinced myself for weeks that it was for the greater good. But even after physical separation and all avoidance, some part of me still hoped to see him again. And I hate myself for it.
One night, as I was heading back home, he happened to be across the street. He looked different, not dramatically, but he looked…fine. He stood beside his bike, eyes glued to his phone. He carried something calmer; the bags under his eyes were lighter. And somehow, my heart raced at the sight of him.
So, I did the obvious; I turned away to leave. But before I could, something caught my attention. I turned my neck and looked back. I wish I didn’t.
A woman came to him with a huge smile. They didn’t exchange any physical contact, but his look was enough for me. One look was enough. He looked at her the same way he did with me. I hated how his smile was softer than I remembered. Feeling my heart in my throat, I wanted to look away.
Goodness, they looked lovely.
She fit perfectly in his arms as he wrapped his hands around her. Anyone could tell they had a story by a glimpse. And I was one of them. I was supposed to be happy for him, but hot tears fell before I could convince myself. So, I forced a smile and watched them fulfill the dream we failed.
“I’m happy for you,” I whispered, clenching my shirt.
I looked at them one last time and finally turned away.
