His voice haunts me in the most diabolical of ways: late at night, drunk, unalone but uncertain of myself as any other moment. I hear it then, as I edge near the boundary of drunken forgetting when intimacy looms large in the viewfinder, as it did then, a fair half decade ago now: you aren't who I thought you were.
That rushing sound you hear is all the doubts you ever had being confirmed in a single exhale of someone else.
But who you were: you knew.
Tata tata rata: "Is this real life?"
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