(Warning: The story itself, title, and summary may all be subject to change.)
Their occurrence was hardly a coincidence, or it was the work of a pile of coincidences so complimentary that it seems impossible to have been simple happenstance. It was a tarot reading as opposed to a die roll. Their cards fell precisely in a beautiful synchronization that mimicked the very perfection in the feeling of their intertwining fingers, in the trepidation and excitement together and at once.
She would be poetic about it.
It was the feeling that defines the discovery of love, a feeling that is fleeting when you let it go without action. You let it go without a fight because you feel another feeling too. That feeling is fear, pure fear, not the inkling of nervousness or anxiety that pushes you to and away from something you desire much like the constant push and pull of the surf on the shore. Pure fear is entirely a suppressant that creeps up on you even at your strongest, and pounces on you while you are weakest. It becomes overwhelming, choking, stifling. It wins out if you let it, when you do nothing. It will lead you away from all other feelings like love and happiness until you forget things like that actually exist. It diminishes their value by tainting their memory with hideous grey washes of doubt, which lead to regret, which leads you to question whether you made up the all-encompassing thrill of cold noses, lips, and fingers meeting all that time ago when it seemed perfect.
She wishes to go back to the days before they let themselves fade, before they existed only in memory, because alone does not feel its worst until you realize what not alone feels like even if you can only vaguely remember the not alone like it was a tangible thing being kept at the edges of your reach where you can just about graze it, but never quite grab a hold. It hardly feels like feeling it. If you feel anything, it feels like you will never have it again because it is always going to be out of reach just like they will always be in the past. Wonderful memories become sickening to remember.
Wishing to go back starts to be just wishing not to be here in her now because the now sucks for her to be honest. Now is in this constant indecision to remember the before fondly or dread its happening, ashamed of herself. To do either is to dwell, and that would not do at all.
She knew better, but it seemed as if she had blinked and they were no more. Neither of them did a damn thing to stop it from happening either. They had allowed themselves to become this, to come to this, and that is what would eat at her soul the most. She could feel it too; her soul was damaged.
In a half-bitter, half-longing sort of way, she wondered how much meditation did it take to realign the other's mentality as if she had never touched her. If only she had some sort of healing method for herself; but no, she would have to leave the spiritual gash to the consoling of time.
If anything were proof of it happening, it would be that ugly scar on her psyche. That would be how it goes. You don't remember without regret. You only realize the good in the wake of its departure, in the bad it leaves behind.
She closes her eyes and the colors are still saturated in this overbearing grey that she cannot help notice the more she stares at it has the lightest hints of blue.
Jinx has no doubt that they had meant something and had been something, something special. Only that kind of thing left such damage, even if it was self-inflicted. She needs to regain her focus, and move on. She decides to get lost. She decides to get lost before she loses herself. She leaves. Like that, she is gone.