The story of the forgotten
Let me tell you the story of the one who has been forgotten. She was only remembered because I broke my favourite tea cup yesterday. I was so mad I didn’t even realise I was talking to myself until she appeared out of nowhere. She was playing with her winter white dress; her hair was messy, pulled back by a hat she had on and she looked like she hadn’t been out in the light for quite a while.
“You haven’t changed Madeliene; before it was toy cups and now you’re breaking the real deal.”
She went and sat in my armchair; the wisps of her hair moved erratically with her. She smiled at me but her eyes were sad, and familiar — I realised she hadn’t changed much herself, she was as beautiful as ever.
“Well yes, thank you for that.”
“I’m sorry, I forgot about you.”
I stood in front of her, playing with my own winter whites, “Nothing’s ever going to change is it? Things are still being broken, we still have a thing for ruffles and I will never be able to sleep in the dark.”
She moved towards me with her set of anxious eyes, “Madeliene, no.”
We stayed like this for a while, with time passing by and no sign of change anywhere. After a while I made tea and we walked through the lives we had spent together as children. We recalled the immeasurable time we spent together, recounting the stories of us sipping from plastic tea cups, talking doll dresses and terror and ignoring clowns.
Nobody around us had ever really seen us, but we still spoke in furtive whispers and knowing looks, until I failed to notice she hadn’t showed up one day.
Story credits: Vogue UK.