Hidden between the lines of ink

Some fiction…

I found some of your old notebooks and sketchbooks in the dumpster. They were filled, page after page with drawings and words. I kept them. On rainy days I’ll take them out of my desk drawer, and flip through them. I’ll run my fingers over the ink on the worn, crumpled paper. I’ll press my nose to your drawings and inhale, as if somehow I could smell you. As if somehow, you were still there, hidden between the lines of ink, or lost between the mountains you sketched long ago. And sometimes I’ll write your name over and over and over in the spaces you left blank, as if writing it will make me feel better. As if you’ll hear it, screaming your name through the bold, black ink, and come back. But you won’t. I know you won’t.

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