Damn, damn, damn, damn! I’ve grown accustomed to her face!                

He cursed himself as sat there in his car, alone. He buried his head in his hands and sighed in frustration. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he thought to himself. At least, not like it did. He leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes, annoyed with himself. He couldn’t make it go away. So instead he drove away, unsure of where he was going.  

She almost makes the day begin. I’ve grown accustomed to the tune that she whistles night and noon, her smiles, her frowns, her ups, her downs, are second nature to me now.                 

She was his friend for crying out loud—he wasn’t supposed to kiss, yet alone—fall in love—not with her. She was just his friend, someone he liked to hang out with, someone he could talk to, someone he could make laugh . . . He shook his head quickly, shoving the thought away. She was his friend, just his friend. People aren’t supposed to fall in love with their friends. Right? No, it couldn’t be, he thought. But he knew he was in love with her and he couldn’t do anything about it, so he settled for being annoyed with himself as drove aimlessly.  

I was serenely independent and content before we met; surely I could always be that way again!                

And it wasn’t even like he’d know her forever—they’d met three years earlier, and they just—they hit it off right away. And slowly—he really should’ve seen it coming—he started to fall for her, and alas, there he was, dealing with the effects of admitting—for the first time (aloud, to her) that he was in love. But it could never happen, and that was fine; he could get over it, sure. It’d be easy.

And yet . . . I’ve grown accustomed to her looks, accustomed to her voice, accustomed to her face.                 

He realized for the first time how much he’d gotten—how much he thought about her. About the things she’d said to him—it all stuck with him, and he’d reflect on it all later, as he tried to fall asleep—the smiles and laughs and the jokes. He started smiling just thinking about it. But he quickly remembered why it couldn’t be.  

Marry Freddy. Ha!                

Roy. It made his insides churn just thinking about it. She was really going to marry him. He didn’t even have a chance. And Roy didn’t even—they would never work. He couldn’t figure out how they’d been together for so long, but they had, they were getting married, something he’d had to live with for the past three years—two months after she started she got engaged. But she was out of reach even before that. It had always been Roy.  

But I’m so used to hear her say ‘Good morning’ everyday . . . Her joys, her woes, her highs, her lows, are second nature to me now. Like breathing out and breathing in. I’m very grateful she’s a woman and so easy to forget, rather like a habit one can always break . . .                 

But no, it was all over now. Not that it had ever really begun, but that was beside the point. He would transfer, and he’d get over her, he would tuck away all those memories of her, all those things that reminded him of her, he’d get rid of it all, and it would be great. Yes, he knew her very well, and she was probably the first person he’d ever really loved, but that—it didn’t matter. He’d start over. He could do it; it’d be easy. 

And yet . . . I’ve grown accustomed to the trace of something in the air, accustomed to her face.                 

He pulled over and buried his face in his hands—again. And he let himself remember.                

He knew it would take a while to get over her—if he ever did.                

He’d never been good at lying.