Loving him from a distance was safe. Also immature and not really love at all.
I had imagined how he’d propose. I’d invented charming inside jokes. I even knew what we’d name our first shelter cat.
His daily admittance onto the C train helped perpetuate the fairy tale. I thought it must be fate when he pointed to my worn out copy of To Kill A Mockingbird; saying it was his favorite, too.
His blonde hair against my chevron pillowcase no longer has the same luster. His unsatisfying propinquity is strangling the breath from our concocted future.