Olivia

There are things you always remember. Things that stay with you forever, like piles over piles of paperwork, freshly brewed coffees in the biggest size they sell, things like being next to a man close to twenty-four hours a day and wondering, just wondering, what it would be like to take up the part of his heart that was reserved for someone else.

The interrogation room is like a prison. One of the three metal chairs is turned towards me, reminding me that it will always be empty of the body who occupied it for so long he could have called it his own, and cold floors reject the tears which splatter onto them—my tears. Five minutes, I told them, but I could stay here until I cried a tear for every single day we saw each other and still have more to spare.

No. I have seen sorrows much worse than mine, enough to eclipse them into something barely visible. Twelve years have passed with him, and another twelve years will pass without him—although I feel a piece of my heart snap off at the thought, it is true. I will go on.

I inhale a final sniffle, wipe off my eyes, and open the door to return to work. There are things you always remember, but there are things you can forget.