My story is not my own, it’s ours.
Mine and Vaughan’s.
Except I can’t remember it.
Or him. I only know who I was before, and when remembering proved to be too much, I moved on and started over. And then the dreams started.
Vivid, and bold, filled with a face I didn’t know.
But he was always there.
In my head. In my heart.
And when I decided to put pen to paper, I found him whispering, “Come back to me.” Some stories are meant to be rewritten.
Others are meant to be relived.