Regret is the name I've given you.

Every year, around this time, I think about you:

So what is this, exactly? Do I call it an accounting of what might have been? I certainly entertained that thought more than once--and as I have recently discovered, so have you. Not quite the marriage of true minds as we were so quick to label it then, because we had our colossal share of impediments. Two months after that, you got married.

You were unexpected. You were every cliche visited upon me by ghosts of journals past. You made me roll a Will saving throw when I had -3 Wisdom; I could never win with you. But you were very real, and in the end, this will only be a remembering.

We were young. Once. See above evidence of every little emotion I felt obliged to document and wear on my sleeve. Someone once told me you have a son now, but maybe that's just my subconscious reminding me that I couldn't have made a difference anyway. Still every year, around this time, my heart curls up a little, into itself, as if it's something flammable come too close to the fire.