"Torture,” I spit the word out as though it burns my tongue.
I don’t wait for him to say anything. He questions me, and my feelings. It’s understandable, considering my past has been so heavy on my mind lately, so I’ll explain myself. 
“Loving him was torture.
“From the way the world melted into a thick liquid and then simply evaporated whenever he was near, leaving only us in all of existence, to the way I wore out the stars by wishing every night for his eternal happiness, leaving them dimly lit in a darkened sky. And everything else in between.  His tired 2am fingers along my back and neck while his mind swam with thoughts of her; his hot words drenched in cannabis (the only thing I think he truly loved) pressed gently to my ear; the bruises on my eyes caused from frequently squeezing them shut, an instinctual reaction to seeing him in pain; the watercolour promises he painted on my skin, knowing eventually the rain would wash them away; finding traces of his infidelity in our sheets, but pretending not to to avoid a fight, so he wouldn’t have an excuse to leave for the night.  Everything about being with him hurt me, but I was in love. Therefore, torture.” I suck in a shaky breath, and swipe away the few tears that prick my eyes.
He watches me intently, jaw clenching beneath his steady face; something he does when angry or sad.  I study his hands and see that they’re fidgeting at his pockets.  If he was angry, they’d be locked in fists. So, sad it is. 
I take a step toward him, wrapping my slightly trembly fingers around his slightly strained neck, and touch my forehead to his. 
“But you…loving you is the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced,” I whisper as though each word I say is a fragile valuable that must be handled with care. 
“From the way you bring everything to life when your warm smile is on my lips, flooding my chest with a comforting euphoria, to the way you outshine even the sun and fulfil my every dream, leaving no need for wishes on stars. And absolutely every little thing in between.  Our 2am whipped cream wars and the shower that always follows; the messy laughs that bleed through our light kisses, and the fire that engulfs us during our passionate ones; the way you say I’m beautiful only when you know you have my full attention, which sometimes takes you holding my face with your hands and my eyes with your eyes; our spontaneous midnight drives to get chocolate milkshakes, with the windows all the way down and our favourite songs playing too loudly; our tradition of falling asleep on that old couch while the TV flashes blue light against our tangled bodies; the fact that we never run out of things to say and even if we did at least we know the silence that would follow is hilariously comfortable. Everything about being with you delights me.  And I am in love.  God, am I in love.”
He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t have to.  That’s what’s so wonderful about us. I know, just  by the way he tightly yet gently wraps his arms around me and presses a kiss to the top of my head, that he feels the same way."

"Just black? No cream or sugar?” he asks as his furry eyebrows raise in surprise.
I shake my head, sipping at the bitter coffee. Do I tell him why I have it this way? Do I explain to him, this new boy—man, he’s a man, the first was a boy—with so much potential, that the colour of coffee mixed with creamer reminds me too much of a past lover’s eyes? Should I warn him about the way mixing sugar into this drink creates the equivalent taste of my heartbreaker’s kiss?
With trembling hands I set the mug aside and watch as a few drops of coffee race down down from where my lips were to create a splotchy ring on the table.
For a second I see it, the heart he—the boy—created on a tabletop out of a coffee ring identical to this one. For a second I smile at the sight, for a second I remember all the good, for a second I forget all the bad.
A pang of guilt hits me immediately after his name rings through my mind—because it’s not the name of the man in front of me, it’s the name of the one I can’t leave behind. And so it disappears, shoved away by familiar letters stringed together in a new order—a formation I’m starting to enjoy on my tongue. I wonder if I’ll start to like mine on his one day.
My reply to his question is simply, “I prefer it this way,” but my voice cracks and I silently pray he doesn’t think anything of it.
But he does. I can see the concern in his wrinkled forehead and slightly parted mouth. Is it bad that I’m surprised? I always thought I was good at hiding my troubles, but I’m starting to believe that maybe that boy was just good at not paying attention.
“Ink cannot be erased like pencil; though it might fade a bit over time it’ll always be there. However, there’s a magical thing called whiteout. You see, if you place it over the part you’d like gone, it’ll give you space to write something new overtop.” He places a rough hand on my delicate one, and he buries his eyes into my soul. I can feel him searching for answers, digging frantically, and I avert my eyes knowing that my secrets are close to the surface; he’s have found them soon if I let him keep looking.
“The same goes for memories,” he continues, “Lets go find something else to drink, place the whiteout over the coffee stains in your mind. Because though I can’t make them go away, I can give you new ones."

"There are fireworks in his eyes, bright colours glowing around the grey of his irises, but they dance for her not me."