Deletion and Exception

The windows are all fogged up. It reminds me of Titanic. It maybe reminds me of you -- of us. But I remember: I can't remember you. I am deleting you like I am deleting everyone else. But I can't; not like everyone else. It's frustrating and saddening and maybe even funny, all at the same time. And I don't know. I want to laugh and cry and even shout profanities (which I never do). But I won't. I won't.

I'm sitting on the edge of my bed. I'm in the apartment. Boxes are piled on one side and the room is barren. I'm lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It's just empty. My life, it's empty. The rain falls hard outside, and the room smells like old paper. Why is it that everything points to you?

I am trying to delete you.

It was fun, and we were fun. But you don't see me. Not like you should. You're trying to change me. You're trying to change me to fit you. And I hate that. I hate that I did because I wanted to fit. But I've had too much of this changing. I've lost myself in the process. We didn't get lost in each other, like how it's supposed to be. They say they don't know where one ends and one starts, but with us it's just me. I don't know who I am anymore. Where do I start? Where do I end? Who is 'me', and who is 'you'? I really don't know anymore.

I am trying to delete you.

Let me.

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Can't stress this enough: FICTION. UNFINISHED.