It was raining. The sky, overcast and grey, looked down upon me as I made myself towards Finchley. I guess this is what it had come to. My life had gone on, with work and family, that I can only bring myself to go when I'm alone.
It's when I'm alone that it hurts.
When I'm alone, I feel the sharp twist of a knife, the phantom of his arms wrapped tightly around me, of his lips pressed gently to mine. When I'm alone I feel insecure, knowing that he will never lay with me again. Alone, when it washes over me, that he will never come home.
I thought that when he left, I would be sad. I would shut my doors tight, and no one would ever come in. And I would never go out. But I was wrong, days turned into months and months into years, and I started to feel happy.
I could easily put on the happy façade that everyone wanted me to. I was a wonderful actress, making people believe what they want to. I didn't object when people made comments on how well I was doing, didn't tell them that they were wrong. That I was fragile and breaking in side.
I didn't think about him much when I was with friends or family. Out having a good time, he was pushed from my mind. I avoided anything that had to do with him or his family. Any memory of us I deleted from my mind. I even moved out of Finchley to get away from the ghosts.
But here I was, making my way, sopping wet. Hoping to get a glimpse of him, his smile, his hair. Anything. Beg him to come back to me, tell him I was sorry and I was wrong. Hoping to have him hold me and be able to hear his heart beating.
I placed down the little statuette of a lion I had found in a shop. I felt the stone against my brittle skin, it didn't have a heartbeat, or his smile, or his hair, or his love. It didn't have anything, except an engraving letting me know it was all too real.
Sighing, I turned away. Who was I kidding?
Hope is not a plan.
A/N: My mom loves the saying 'hope is not a plan'. I thought I'd incorporate it into a piece. I don't own Narnia or that saying by the way.