She liked taking his picture when he wasn't looking.
She wasn't a budding photographer like her kid sister was, but she did know how to use a camera.
There was something about him that made her pause: every movement was with a purpose even if he never intended it, and he was so serious. Too many emotions simmered beneath the surface.
If only she'd gotten the time to dig a little, maybe she wouldn't find it so hard to breathe at the sight of him frowning up at her from a fallen box.
Maybe she wouldn't be filled with so much regret.
She cleaned up her apartment after he'd left. It's what she does when she's upset - she cleans. Every surface she scrubbed raw like the memories of him she tried to erase.
But the fact remains that he'd etched his name on a place, that no matter how much she scrubbed, she could not get rid of it. She could not get rid of him.
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