Emma Judge Lit

Sunglasses hide my tired eyes as I walk down the street, the city’s sounds a rhythmic backdrop, my heels click against the pavement, adding their own acoustics to the score.

With each step, faces pass by all around me, including yours, flashing before me in my head. In a city far from yours, my heels click against the iron steps of the train station, passing bodies rush alongside me, while memories flicker in and out of view, memories of you.

Standing on the platform, I close my eyes and allow my thoughts to wander.

Your dark hair hangs over your forehead, drawing my eye to the light shining in yours.

I imagine sweeping it back, out of your face, my thin pale fingers grazing your forehead, a shudder passing between us.

Your face, framed with dark bushy brows, they’ve always betrayed you, broadcasting your emotions and thoughts to the world.

The train rushes to a stop, the wind blowing my hair in all directions. I don’t move to fix it, instead I force my feet towards the train to board the car, each step feels like I’m moving piles of bricks.

Behind my sunglasses, my eyes sting.

I try to focus on the trees. I focus on the trees, and try to put the image of you out of my mind, because I know how it would go.

So I rise from my seat as the train pulls into my stop. I move my feet towards the stairs, the clicking slower now, impassive, resigned. I feel the warm saltiness of the droplets moving across my cheeks, I’m thankful for the brown lenses’ protection.

I move as if being pulled along by a rope, tied at my waist. The clicking is inaudible, it feels as though someone muted the entire city.

Nothingness courses through me, as I notice how the image of you is fading, like the end of a movie. One day your face will become a blank screen. The image of you, gone.