It was in forgetting that he found freedom, a way to shift from what he was. It was like wearing a mask, identical in every way to his face – nothing had outwardly changed, but there was still an anonymity, the ability to pass silently in the night.
He found ways to pretend that he’d never met her, didn’t know her, couldn’t love her, hadn’t lost her. He fled her picture. He turned numb to his memories of her skin.
But the mask wouldn’t become the truth. It was a pretense, a crutch – a way to walk with a broken heart.