/lit/ - Literature

>>19257724
It's been two years and I can't say I'm not over my ex. Back then I was a blank slate. A misfit halfwit who somehow captured someone's spotlight. They were about as desperate to find someone as I was to find myself. Was I really in love with them for them? Or entrapped in an envious sort of awe of how they must've felt looking at their reflection? Were they some savior that simply handed me the map? Now, sometimes, I'm still afraid to live as me. Not because of me, but because my void has been filled with them. I'm not afraid in the way one might take a stain off a shirt. But in the way one might second guess keeping a childhood toy out in the open. Looking from then to now--I find myself wrapped in clothes they might add to their wishlist, trailing and weaving the escapades they'd told me of, albeit only partly so. I hear myself speaking in a tongue that calls folks to me. And when my call echoes, I hear the whispers of this ex that swayed me so. People often say we find parts of ourselves through others. But I can't say I'm convinced today's me is entirely originally me undiscovered. Sharing those playlists back and forth back then; could I have seen I'd be the cover of those songs on repeat? Even if I'm a replica, I still extend my hand to its certain warmth, although perhaps one out of season.