She wondered why she could never stop herself from talking about these things, when each time they were discussed, the waves of pain and embarrassment returned, and the memories that came with them were a little sharper each time. She wondered why she still returned to these things, even when she was tired. She was tired of hearing the same things, tired of the revolving arguments about the unfinished novel, the rules of feminism, about the boy who didn't love her. She finished her cigarette and stubbed it out into the ashtray, a little more violently than she intended. She told herself she was stubbing out the memories of these things. It was too dangerous to go back.
forsakinghalfloves is a creative writing student, blog lurker, and freelance writer from the Philippines.