Evanescent
love is just a lie made to make you blue
All good things come to an end.
Or so they say.
Constance couldn’t help but be bitter about the proverb; it hung like a jinx over anyone who hoped to find anything worthwhile; anything that would last for more than just a blink of an eye.
Just as it had been within her grasp it had been snatched away like candy from a baby.
Love was fleeting.
Love was cruel.
It leaves you vulnerable and weak, open for your heart to be ripped out and torn apart, shredded beyond recognition, beyond comprehension. And when love’s gone? The agony of your heart being forever altered by that love leaves you breathless and aching.
And the person who did the crushing—the destroying? Nothing. Not so much as a lingering thought; an insignificant point in their lives that faded faster than ice melting on a hot day.
It was that moment in time—a moment so fleeting to him but essential to Constance.
The bite of his words stung, “I found someone else” and “I don’t love you” should have never been paired together in such heartbreaking utterances. Constance had cried and pleaded, yelled and raged until her throat was hoarse and she had nothing inside her to fight him with.
Yet he remained firm in his words, assured her that a year was nothing, that she would find someone better than him.
One year. Fifty-two weeks. Three-hundred and sixty-five days. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours. Five hundred twenty-five thousand and six hundred minutes.
How could all that time be so inconsequential?
Constance sat in her living room—a room in a house they had occupied together; a room with so many memories that she felt as raw as she had the moment he had thrown her love back at her. Her champagne brown eyes wandered over the pictures on the walls; of them and their families. All of it was left behind when he took his belongings.
His clothes, his gaming systems, a few knick-knacks and trophies all were gone. He left the rest for Constance to stare at; a relentless reminder of how pointless loving someone truly was.
What had she gotten from him in that time?
Not anything worthwhile.
Beyond the material things—a few bouquets of flowers and an inexpensive necklace—he had only left her grief and lies, useless memories and wasted time.
She could have done something in the year she had wasted with him! She could have made herself someone! But she had squandered her time, so wrapped up in the bliss and whirlwind that was his love.
Pondering in silence, she realized her upset wasn’t over the fact that he had found someone else to love while she sat at home dutifully waiting for him, or that she never made something of herself, or even that he had left all their memories for her to deal with.
Constance was disappointed because she could have been loving someone else in the time she had misspent on him; she could be engaged and planning a wedding instead of pining after him and wishing he wasn’t in love with another.
But much like love: time, it did not last.
Time was evanescent.
Or so they say.
Constance couldn’t help but be bitter about the proverb; it hung like a jinx over anyone who hoped to find anything worthwhile; anything that would last for more than just a blink of an eye.
Just as it had been within her grasp it had been snatched away like candy from a baby.
Love was fleeting.
Love was cruel.
It leaves you vulnerable and weak, open for your heart to be ripped out and torn apart, shredded beyond recognition, beyond comprehension. And when love’s gone? The agony of your heart being forever altered by that love leaves you breathless and aching.
And the person who did the crushing—the destroying? Nothing. Not so much as a lingering thought; an insignificant point in their lives that faded faster than ice melting on a hot day.
It was that moment in time—a moment so fleeting to him but essential to Constance.
The bite of his words stung, “I found someone else” and “I don’t love you” should have never been paired together in such heartbreaking utterances. Constance had cried and pleaded, yelled and raged until her throat was hoarse and she had nothing inside her to fight him with.
Yet he remained firm in his words, assured her that a year was nothing, that she would find someone better than him.
One year. Fifty-two weeks. Three-hundred and sixty-five days. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours. Five hundred twenty-five thousand and six hundred minutes.
How could all that time be so inconsequential?
Constance sat in her living room—a room in a house they had occupied together; a room with so many memories that she felt as raw as she had the moment he had thrown her love back at her. Her champagne brown eyes wandered over the pictures on the walls; of them and their families. All of it was left behind when he took his belongings.
His clothes, his gaming systems, a few knick-knacks and trophies all were gone. He left the rest for Constance to stare at; a relentless reminder of how pointless loving someone truly was.
What had she gotten from him in that time?
Not anything worthwhile.
Beyond the material things—a few bouquets of flowers and an inexpensive necklace—he had only left her grief and lies, useless memories and wasted time.
She could have done something in the year she had wasted with him! She could have made herself someone! But she had squandered her time, so wrapped up in the bliss and whirlwind that was his love.
Pondering in silence, she realized her upset wasn’t over the fact that he had found someone else to love while she sat at home dutifully waiting for him, or that she never made something of herself, or even that he had left all their memories for her to deal with.
Constance was disappointed because she could have been loving someone else in the time she had misspent on him; she could be engaged and planning a wedding instead of pining after him and wishing he wasn’t in love with another.
But much like love: time, it did not last.
Time was evanescent.