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Slipping Through My Fingers.

It’s only been a year and a few months since I left school, yet it feels like an entire lifetime has passed. Geographically, I'm far away, but even more so, the version of me that I built under those glaring white lights seems distant, almost unreachable. I try to recall it, but nothing comes with the warmth of nostalgia.

I can still faintly feel the hard work etched into my bones, the familiarity of that one song that played on repeat at every event, and the faces that simply represent memories of both laughter and sorrow. Things that once fit together perfectly, things I thought would last forever. But they have broken apart, like everything else eventually does.

I once believed I had found something special, but it too seemed to shatter like the rest. Yet, even in the fragments, there are pieces I treasure to this day. I hold onto them, trying to piece it all back together, even when it feels impossible.

I let myself slack off for a few days, letting the fatigue wash over me. She says she feels it too, that she understands. It’s easier when you don't care as much, but maybe she does care. I find myself making excuses for this affection, trying to make sense of it.

Am I just an outlet? Is she just an outlet? I don’t know. Does distance really make the heart grow fonder, or does it make us forget? Are we just echoes of the past, someone to hold onto to avoid forgetting? 

Not a friend, but a living memory. A place to return to when everything feels too new, when life is happening too fast, and nothing is certain. The comfort lies in the pain we shared. It’s still pain, but it’s shared pain.

Time feels like it’s slipping away unnoticed. It’s only when I see the faces of those who knew me then that I realize how much has changed. They tell me that the harder I try to hold onto it, the faster it will slip away—like the desert sand we grew up with. But I can’t help but grasp harder because, in the end, it’s all I have left.

They question me, asking who I am to this land. I don’t have an answer, but I know the land knows me. It has seen me. Shouldn’t that count for something?

The land, wherever it may be, isn’t ours. We belong to it, everywhere and anywhere.

I feel guilty for questioning this love when I have it. For dissecting its origins while I still feel its sweetness. But then she texts me, and suddenly, I’m filled with hope and warmth, the goodness of humanity. I only believe in it when I see it. But is that belief?

Isn’t that knowing? Knowing I am loved rather than believing in it. It feels cruel to question love when you should just feel it, believe in it, and let yourself fall. 

Maybe then, you won’t feel the bone crush. 

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