I run out into the rain. The rhythmic pounding of the drops on the ground is a soothing sound. Within seconds, I am drenched. But I don’t care. I’ve never cared.

The raindrops tickle my face as they mix with my tears. A simple reminder that it’s not as bad as it seems. But they’re only raindrops. Raindrops without feelings. Without emotion. How could they know?

Even though you no longer care about me, I still want you nearby. Even though you’ve found someone to replace me, I like to pretend she’s me. I like to pretend I’m crying only because I miss you. I like to pretend you miss me too.

The rain fades to a mist as I make my way over to the playground. I know you won’t be there, but I can still remember the times you were. Do you remember the first time I said ‘I love you’? It seems like ages ago. But it also feels like it was just yesterday. Was it? I’ve no sense of time anymore. Not since the accident.

The accident. Is that what they say it was? A mistake? Something that went so horribly wrong? I’d say it went horribly right, as it did exactly what I wanted it to do.

I sit on the wet swing, but it doesn’t matter because I’m already soaked. The metal groans. It needs to be oiled. But this isn’t my job. Just as I’m no longer yours. You don’t worry about me anymore. There’s nothing to worry about.

A small child appears out of nowhere. She’s probably two, maybe three years old. She sees me, and I walk over to where she is.
“Where’s your mum?”
She looks confused, as if I’m speaking a made-up language. Maybe I am. I wouldn’t know.
Then her mother comes around the corner. She doesn’t even look at me as she drags the little girl away, scolding her. I don’t expect her to see me. Nobody does.

I’ve got nowhere left to go, so I walk to your house. You don’t know I’m here, and you won’t find out either. I open your front door and see you, standing at the bottom of the stairs. You turn around slowly, but you don’t see me. Just like I knew you wouldn’t. You close the door, and are sure to deadbolt it this time. I know I scared you, and I’m not sorry. I follow you upstairs, and I watch you do your homework. Watch, because there’s nothing I can say.

The next time you leave the room, I decide to experiment. I wonder if I can leave you a note. I grasp at the pen, but it slips through my fingers. Like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. Except my hands are the smoke.

There’s so much I want to say, but no way to say it. I’ll never be able to rest until I try to tell you, so when you come back, I whisper in your ear. I whisper the words I couldn’t say before. The words you wouldn’t hear before.

“I had to do it. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry.”

I think you heard me.