They stand at the door like they did a while ago, before all of that, and they look at each other. They each feel the weight on their shoulders, and the neighbor from below passes by, looking at the two past lovers. But nobody knows them. Their story. Because like all great stories, it remains unknown. For the most part.

/

Because people just leave and there is no good reason, or sometimes no reason ever found will suffice. Because girlhood was growing inside your belly like a forbidden fruit and he wanted to be a man, to be what his father always told him he should be.

Because you have him a gun and he shot at your chest just after he gave you a life-jacket that was, in all honesty, full of holes.

Because you were enough or maybe you were too much enough, like the way a child raised by wolves eventually learns to snarl at the ground. You were a prey and he was raised by wolves, seeing you, a girl, a lover, but still seeing a prey.

Because you lost the girlhood before she could open her eyes, and he was not there when he should have been. Because not everyone has something to give, because you were the pocket knife dipped in alcohol and he was the one twisting it further into the wound.

You both lost something that night, and when he should have been there, he was atop another when his is the shoulder you should have cried on, and yours was the chest he should have sobbed on.

And you didn't know what to do just then, because what do people do once they've parted ways after the crash? How does one, after an adventure, go back to the normal routine? Because you don't know what is normal anymore, and his skin feels attached to yours as you try to walk away.

You gaze into his eyes, and he gazes into yours, and you feel like he is saying sorry. But deep inside, you are glad. You are glad that you can walk away now, when you are expected to. You weren't used to walking away. But when something brings you pain, you don't go after the pain. You go after something to relieve it.

He was a thorn in your finger that overstayed it's welcome. Though, a rose has to go through thorns before it blooms.

There is pain and joy in your chest, and you menage the strength to smile at him. He can't tell why you're smiling, but he smiles back. Because you want smiles to be the last thing you exchange. You want to feel peace. You want to stop the pain and the ache.

And you smile. Your lips stretch and if you had no ears, you would be smiling around your head. Your eyes are tearful as your hand runs over your belly. He glances down, and his own eyes are glossy. But you smile at the stranger in front of you, because he is not the man you loved.

You close your eyes, and there is a man-shaped hole in where he used to be. You turn to look at him, and he is a stranger. Only a man passing though your heart. You made place for him, but he just keeps passing.

So the other day, instead of knocking, you pass his door with a thorn-less rose in your hand.