We are strangers. That is how we started, so that is how we will end. It matters not that I have seen the intricate details of your soul, or traced my fingers down your spine when you were lying next to me in your bedlegs intertwined and your body pressed close against mine. It matters not that I know what your breath sounds like when you’re sleeping, or when you twitch just enough to squeeze in a little bit closer to me as you flutter in and out of sleep. Never mind that I have traced the lines of your palm and connected the dots between your freckles so many times that I could do it again from memory. Forget the way that my neck lays perfectly in the crevice between your neck and shoulder blade, like our bodies were carved out intentionally to fit our own mold. It no longer matters how our strides sync up when we walk next to each other or how you pull me close to you as we approach a crosswalk and you see oncoming traffic. Despite all of this, you are foreign to me. If you read our story back to front, it would read the same. Because where we started as strangers, we end there too.
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Strangers | Abigail Miller
