I was weeding our backyard and watering the flowers when I came across our names which we had carved on the giant, old tree when we were eight. It's still there and I feel like I'm a part of a cliché romance novel when I run my fingers over our names.

That's why I love this house, my dead parents' house passed on to me. The memories spent here are still fresh . . . the memories of you and me quietly reading under the tree and then you cracking an inappropriate joke to which I used to hit you with my book playfully and run around the tree only to be chased by you.

It doesn't feel good anymore as I stand here all alone under the tree which had created memories that once brought happiness and now just brings . . . hollowness.

Message failed to send : 08:04 pm
Date : 2nd May