I’m sitting in the office scrolling through our text messages. Two years on, I just realized I haven’t deleted them.  

Neither have I changed your name on my contact list: “Her”. Because why would I? Changing it won’t undo the feelings. You’re still “her”.  

But the messages though. It’s like revisiting a crime scene. Actually no, that’s not accurate enough. It’s like reading a journal detailing the crime from beginning to end.  

“Honestly you don’t understand…It’s like the smallest things with you. Your smile. Your skin. Your smell. Your touch.” 

“Awwww baby! I can’t wait to touch your body xxx And kiss you! What’s up with my smile and you like it so much? You keep telling me about my smile 🙈 ” 

“It’s cheeky. Innocent and sexy at the same time. That’s a rare combo.” 

The back and forth was relentless. Chat upon chat and detail upon detail about how you made me feel with your every word, your every look, your every move.  

“I love you. Do you realize that?” 

“Baby! I’m trying to get to grips with it!” 

How strong and lasting my “I love you” felt then. How empty and futile does it feel now. It’s funny how we move on with life pretending life never happened. We choose to forget and time comes to our rescue. Memories are nothing but footprints on the sand – you can’t tell which one is yours, which one is mine, all eroding quickly over time.  

Pictures of you in the morning, smiling, wishing me a nice day. Pictures of you at night, lying on your bed, naked, driving my sense and senses crazy. It was all there – transcripts, written proof of my continuous effort to make you see yourself through my eyes. A woman everyone is looking for and I was blessed enough to find. Promises and declarations, dreams and aspirations spelled out on a screen.  

Is it that we didn’t try enough or did we try too hard for something that wasn’t much?

It doesn’t really matter. Because our story won’t be remembered. Its remnants will be gone at the click of the red button.

Delete.