Were we always meant to remember? I received a message today at 130pm and something told me that seeing that wretched woman, that wretched cause of it all, was fate. It was meant for it to come back. I still can’t get over that sorry excuse of a woman, that sorry excuse of a professor. Damn it all if she’s still there. Damn it all if she’s still teaching. I saw her last week, smiling as if nothing happened. I felt those familiar feelings come back to me and going into that room again, where I was questioned, I felt the hot, salty tears brimming in my eyes. I hated it. I hated the feeling of remembering the torture of being yelled at, of being questioned, and of being sneered at. It’s something I will never get used to.
I saw the letter encased in the classic white envelope in the bathroom and I reread the letter. I tried not to remember, but I did. Sadly, I did. Quickly, I crumpled the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope. I stuck under two books. As if that had helped. I wish I could throw it away. But damn it, it’s a freaking keepsake. How on earth am I supposed to move on and forget about it when you’re all trying to make me remember?
I dreamt about number 2. It was a strange dream and it seemed as though you had not known who I was, and yet you had a strange twinge in your eye. Like we shared something. But I asked you in that dream, and that feeling of not letting go felt so real. I remembered you in the car on the way to school and somehow it felt impossible not to like you all over again. But again, I remembered and sometimes memory does that to you. It makes you remember things forgotten, even the ones you try to forget.
But I wish that for once, I could move forward instead of backward.