" Am I a puppet?" As I string along her memories, her lack of interest in this world becomes clear. The park she used to take me to now burns my heart knowing that she died on the next block. Having been together for decades, I knew her words and reactions. So I built an elaborate facade using my knowledge of her.
' A voice, her voice, to save me from this silence and keep me sane.'
" You are not a puppet." Her voice embraced the warm breeze.
I am sorry for your loss. It has been a year. But you should get your life together! " Their worry echoed around me. But every time, those words morphed into her words of comfort. As the breeze failed to carry her words for a moment, the fear inside me grew. A stabbing pain shot across my chest. After a long second, her sweet voice masked the quietness.
"Do you remember the first time we met?" she asked.
" It was awkward and sweet," I replied. Suddenly, the guitar was strung against the cement bench due to the wind. It weighed me down every time I carried it on my shoulder, though it seemed lighter on the ground. It could be the heaviness of her loss, or it could be the guitar strings you gifted me. I spiralled into making a list of heaviness inside me.
"Do you not like it?" my dead love asked.
"It is perfect-it-is just-it weighs down my shoulder since I...