𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: "The October That Was Never Mine" by Irish M. Sanchez

 

Layout by: Joey Francisco

Published by: Kristine Caye Emono

Date Published: February 14, 2025

Time Published: 6:15 PM

Category: Prose

Theme: The pain of being misled by false promises and illusions of love.

As I sit here, reminiscing about what was left of us, I cannot help but wonder what our time together meant. Another Monday in October that slips by, forgotten? If it didn’t mean anything, why did it feel so real? Or was I the only one who thought it was special?

Maybe, just maybe, it was more than simply a day on the calendar; rather, it was a brief window into something more—something I could hold onto, something I could believe in.

The signs were there, soft and gentle at first. It sparked, you know, when our arms brushed against each other—something uniquely ours, unspoken yet undeniable. Though something about your touch lingers, staying within me to believe whether it really meant something more than just a gesture. You never said you liked me, but you spoke in ways that made me believe you could. It was the lighthearted teasing and the slight jokes that felt like competition that made me think I had a chance. In the whispers—those you said and did—perhaps there was something more than I dared to believe: a signal that I was falling, gasping, drowning in the depths of your gaze.

You offered only bits and pieces, never the full truth, just enough to keep me searching for more.

You promised me she was just a friend, but there was that look in your eyes that I had only seen in movies. The way you stare at her like she was some kind of apple you've been eyeing for a while. You swore that you no longer felt anything for her, yet your fingers still hold me with the shape of her existence, and your heart still raced when her name was spoken. She was the one you were looking for in the crowd of people I was in, while I was there standing, thinking you would search for me. You opened the door for me to look, but not the key for me to get in. And I waited in hope while you decided whether you wanted me or just the comfort of knowing that I was around.

I read too much between the lines of your touch; I assumed that the magically crafted words coming out of your mouth were meant to pull me deeper into something more. I was in the echo of my dream that never actually existed.

Like trying to capture the warm, lovely, but always elusive glow of a crimson sunset. Each view and touch was a minor burn that was just there momentarily; you were a comfort that I couldn't really call mine. Like a flame that illuminated brightly just to abandon me in the cold, I was left searching for warmth that was never meant for me.