It’s funny sometimes, how much of a life you truly miss, until you’re separated from it. How the simplest of gestures can yield memory upon memory and breathe life into a dull ache that will spawn once again into a gnawing addiction. You can try to separate yourself from it. To distance yourself from people and the perils they bring, but in the end, you’ll still reach out for that ghost of a life, fingers clutching at smoke and a recollection of the things that exist now only in retrospect.
Magda knows she looks ridiculous when she does it; she feels it too, if truth be told, but it doesn’t stop the movement of her digits as they linger in a state of false equity, hesitant in their own right to reach out for the tangible reminder of what she’s left behind. She could make this so much easier; could clamber up on that chair and tell the world in no uncertain terms, ‘I’m still here!’ But she isn’t quite there yet. Her fingers retreat slowly, curling back into a palm where they will almost certainly cleave tiny crescent moons by way of regret.
Maybe tomorrow.
