static capture romance.
The photo album was empty. Pages upon pages, once filled with memories and laughter were now just blank pearl white pages of emptiness. And Marcus stood above them, desperate and desperately flipping through the pages searching for one picture. Just one picture. One concrete memory of me.
He'd been through the closets, searching for my clothes. Through my drawers. In the cupboard opposite our bedroom there used to lie rows of snowglobes from everywhere. One from each state, from each place we'd visited together, from each memory we'd shared together. It too was empty.
His search became more and more frantic, our apartment a horrid mess. He couldn't think straight, but who could? He went through videotapes of trips we'd taken - they too were blank; a romance reduced to static.
It was hours before he'd finally collapsed on the floor, in a tangled mess of paper and frustration. The tears streamed down my face as I placed a hand on his cheek. Caressed it the way I would when he still believed in me. When we still believed in each other.
The sad thing about imaginary lovers is that it works both ways. Which one of us was really real?