Our eyes met for the hundredth time that night. I was an immature brat, just like you always told me, so I walked over. But I wasn’t being immature, I was being naïve. Hopeful. That after all these months of separation, you finally realized that you still love me.

I strut over in my five inch heels, short LBD and flaunted my smokey eye shadow and pink glossed lips. I fidgeted with my ring and pulled at the hem of my dress, until you came into view. And I kept walking. I got close enough to smell your favorite cologne, the one I used to think smelled like a musty forest. Now I realize you just smell like a hazy combination of drugs and body odor. But I still remember you every time I smell it.

Then you looked at me again. With your eyes that swore they loved me. I reached out to hold your hand, the one that I thought fit perfectly in mine. Grazing the end of your sleeve, your hand slipped through mine like a wet bar of soap.

Your face said all I needed to hear. Covered in disgust, anger and a hint of regret, I understand now. Your feelings for me are not the same anymore, in fact, they are nonexistent. To you, I am nonexistent.