It had been a long while since the argument, I thought to myself one lazy afternoon as I looked out the window at the cold clear sky above. Oh, I know it wasn’t just one argument, I reminded myself. I had had a good deal of time to think things over. The selfish grief was gone, but in its place was a sort of cold, grim remorse that, in its own way was just as painful as the harsh words that had been spoken. But in fact, it was not arguments that had thrust us apart. You certainly couldn’t call them arguments — or even talks. It was quite the opposite, really.
I used to think it was little things that one of us said or did that put an end to us as I would have liked it. But it wasn’t. Our love — and you know what I mean by the word — died of neglect. Just as the warmest embers will eventually fade if they aren’t carefully tended, we slowly concluded — first her, and in my more recent moods, me — that the other was simply too much work. We decided that holding onto a seemingly childish ideal was somehow not worth it anymore.
I think what really happened was that both of us became more and more selfish with age. Each saw it in the other, but not in our own self.
There were high wispy clouds that day. Not the puffy white ones we used to watch as children. Not the dark grey ones of I pondered when our separation was first made clear. They were white-blue — almost indistinguishable from the sky. It wasn’t nostalgia that I felt, nor sadness, nor even despair. Now I recall — it was that cold, heartless regret that I spoke of earlier — though unpleasant, not really even an emotion.
Other than the fact that I spent it thinking about her (which I rarely did anymore), the day was like any other. Except for one thing. It was the day I decided to actually be the friend to her I had been telling myself I had been for so long. To be continued…


