You are now my proverbial person in the rearview mirror, slowly fading as the sky transition reflected so easily. I am doing nothing about it because I am afraid of this. I fear this. I fear this.
I will walk out of this place for the last time for good but I won't find your traces of existence around me or on me. Time runs out before the sand even finished toppled around, forming a mount of halfway memories. You won't remember me in months or days or hours or minutes and that's not okay to me because I am not doing okay without you, right now. I will leave with regret and that's when it starts. Stage of detachment. I won't remember you in years or decades or forever. The last step would be heavy and I will not be spared any more adolescent excuses and that's okay. I was getting tired of this whole "teenage gets away with everything" anyway. I just want to grow old with you. I don't quite know? Maybe 60 would be okay? 90, perhaps? Too soon, Fatehah. We're still sixteen. Remember all the song lyrics of age sixteen, live it. And just know, you're leaving and I am letting you to. I am subtly telling you it's okay to do so. But I will miss you. I am missing you.
I say we still have quite 74 if we're surviving 90. Hah.
