Sitting one lonely night by myself, the wedding album on my lap, a foreign, old memory was this time, this place. Every page was a polished illusion — grinning mouths frozen in midsyllable, hands held, eyes bright with promise. But what I could feel was the heaviness of disappointment on my chest. Going through those photos wasn’t just a walk down memory lane; it was a chance to reflect on all that had unfolded between Sherry and me. (You forgot to mention) Remember when the music shined like madness and now the love is just a mean reminder of what we should have had.
I resented those photos. They were not just images — they were scars etched on glossy paper. They laughed at me with their bullshit promises of forever, it got to where I couldn’t even look at them without getting a knot in my stomach. All those grins in those pictures felt like lies.” It all seemed like a moment frozen in time, not pertinent to the savage turn our lives had taken.
Sherry always had a phenomenal memory. It was something I used to be in awe of with her and how she could remember the littlest details about our time together. But that gift would become a weapon with time. When we argued, she tossed in discussions from months past, distorted my words so they’d sound like…
