Looking Forward

Nothing good ever comes from living in the past. I know that. I’ve told you that a hundred times over, and yet here I am—staring down at a wrinkled photograph of us, carefree and grinning, and wondering where it all went wrong. We were so happy, with the sky a beaming bright blue behind us, a gaudy orange visor resting crooked on your head, and my face burnt and freckled from too much sun. You promised it would last forever. But I guess it’s not your fault that everything’s ephemeral.
I don’t like romcoms, but I still find myself switching them on out of habit. Sometimes I catch myself sitting with my legs tucked up beneath me, waiting for you to stroll in and plop down beside me with some sardonic witticism to cover up the rapt attentiveness in your eyes. I’m still trying to figure out when we stopped watching them ironically.
The first few times I flipped on the tv and hit play on one of the several movies recorded without you, I kept to my side of the couch. We used to complain that it was too small, shoving at each other and griping about not being able to lie down properly. Now, I’m sitting in the middle because you’re not here, and I can’t stand the sight of so much empty space. Your dog is watching me, his wide brown eyes sad and tired. His head is nestled forlornly on top of your favourite pair of old, muddy boots, waiting for you to come back home. Why did you leave him with me? I don’t even like dogs, much less tiny yappy things like Corgis. You know I don’t like dogs. We only bought the damned thing so you’d stop nagging me about children. I’d put up with him, if you took care of him. That was the deal. You promised you wouldn’t break it.
My hands are shaking too badly to bring the picture into focus, so I place it clumsily back into the red, heart-shaped box on my lap—the one that held decorative little chocolates on the night of our first real date. It lands on top of the faded, ratty friendship bracelet you made me. It’s fraying on one end from where I’d had to cut it to get it off, and the colours have all bled and melted into each other in an ugly, faded shade of rust. We where what, 9? 10? It was the first present you ever gave me. Your whole face lit up when I told you, almost a decade later, that I’d kept it. The cracked guitar pick from our first (and only) group guitar lesson rests innocuously next to the pressed dandelion your niece gave me at one of many too large family picnics.
It takes me three tries to get the lid back on the box and in the end, I accidentally knock the plastic heart from my knees to the carpet and the lid tumbles right back off. I think about maybe bending down to pick it back up, but I then I decide that it doesn’t really matter. I’ll see you again soon anyway. We can make a new box, with new memories. Your dog stands up on his absurdly short legs and he’s barking at me now—high pitched and shrill. There are little orange bottles with your name on them littering the floor and I wonder if he knows what their emptiness means.