I pity the woman that tries to love him after me.
The dreaded sound of my name will eat her up inside. She will never be able to wear certain scents, say certain words. She will carry a list of places that she will not dare step foot in, because they have already been tainted with our laughter.
She will regretfully listen to stories of our remarkable romance and watch his eyes light up as he reminisces. She will probably never receive one of his hand written love letters. There will always be an inexplicably empty feeling when they’re quiet in a room together.
It will be difficult for her to pretend like she didn’t hear him almost say my name. She will be in constant competition with my shadow, knowing that the man that stands in front of her is the man that I helped mold.
The perks of being his first love: when he kisses her, they both have me on their mind.