Flash Fiction: In Which You Said So

You said so. Or at least, I thought you did. I thought I heard you say it when we were lying on my bed, watching the stars that never appeared in my ceiling. We talked about what we did that day and who we spoke to and what we thought about the state of the world and we agreed that it meant something, even though it didn’t. It doesn’t mean anything.

I could never tell you that because you love me. You said so. Or at least, I thought you did. It sounded like “I love you” when you were looking at me, your eyes full of tears and your throat hoarse and your mouth moving slowly with the words. It sounded like “I love you.” It looked like I love you. It was supposed to be I love you.

But it doesn’t feel like I love you. And it doesn’t feel like four years of togetherness and it doesn’t feel like happy things, like grass between your toes or the sun shining during a rainstorm, or dancing wildly to a bad song.

It doesn’t feel like anything, really.

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