Painting on the wall (Fiction)

“He’s still in love with her”, I think to myself as I catch him looking at her in a way he has never looked at me before.

He laughs at every jokes she makes, unlike the times he laughs at me for every stupid thing I say. He wipes her face unlike the times he couldn’t even be bothered to tenderly caress mine. ‘He loves her; he always has’, a stark reminder says. I look away – after all who can watch their world being slayed?

‘It’s okay’, I tell myself. Maybe someday I’ll find someone who’ll love me the same way. I look down at my hands; they ache to be in his. They ache to be on him. They ache to be entwined. He’s still looking at her. She is oblivious to his gaze. Or maybe she is basking in every inch of the attention he gives her; glowing even. She points at me and he finally takes his eyes away from her beautiful face and looks at mine. His eyes question mine. There is a silent impatience in them. There is a silent regret within them. These things; they flicker on his face sometimes – more so when I see him with her. ‘Why can’t two people who love each other be together?’, he asks me. I begin to remind him that we are together but I stop midway. I realise he wasn’t talking about me anyway.

Her looks back at her; my presence completely forgotten. She is just a picture on a wall. A painting from a time long lost.
‘She doesn’t exist. I do!’, I feel like screaming at him. But it’s too late. He has already asked her to the ball.


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