She quietly whispered with her legs crossed, left over right, hunched forward and tucking her hair behind her ear, “I wish he were like smoke. I wish he would dissipate. Disappear.”  But even when the smoke is gone, the smell still lingers, it’s still there.

She told me how she walked the halls, reaching out to feel the texture of the light yellow walls. How she let her fingers trail behind her, her nails lightly scrapping along. It made her feel connected to something, she said. The realizations came like a tidal wave: things were never the way she had perceived them, that this person was never who she thought they were; reality carefully hidden by the need to believe the best in everyone. Especially those she let into her life. How could she have been so wrong? So wrong.

She finally did what everyone told her to do. Delete this person from her life. Websites, clicks, click, clicks. Cell phone, scroll, click, confirm. Instant message services, remove from list, click. Then an email search for their address….the result said 1 of hundreds. Hundreds. She scrolled, read, reread their life finally hitting on messages that made her stop and remember. It hurt to remember. Stop.

With that thought she sat up straight and said firmly that you can never actually delete. You move on, you move forward, you tell yourself to Stop, but you never can delete.

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