I realised that it wasn’t who he was that kept me going back for answers. It was who I was. It was me blending in with all the nameless girls that had been in and out of his head. People that didn’t makek it into his history. Girls that carried hurt that he dismissed as ‘stuff that happens’. I knew he valued history. I knew that because he had told me his history. One with names and faces and wistfulness. His history painted him honest, if not perfect. I didn’t count on the fact that some people carried bits of him in their history and he didn’t make it into theirs. I wanted to have a place…a face…a name. I wanted to be etched deeply into his history and repeated often in the stories to come. But reality had me down as the parts of the past that didn’t even exist. He was in mine, but I was just ‘stuff that happens’.

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