i wish someone would get to know me again.

I wish someone would get to know me. I want someone to learn my stories and hear my history. To place their hands on my spine and hold me, as if I am to be loved once again.

But it wasn't always this way.

I had been someone's for a while; a long while, in fact. She's all I can remember.

From the minute she looked at me, I was all hers. Hers and no one else's; she made that clear. From the minute she looked at me, we decided. I didn't believe in love at first sight until I met her...and then, in that first week, she tattooed her name on my sleeve. How pretty her handwriting was.

Soon enough, we would go everywhere together. To class, to coffee shops around the city, to the park on a bright spring's day, even one day to her mom's house. Never too far from her heart.

But meeting her mom was a step I hadn't taken before. She lived in a tiny white cottage in the middle-of-nowhere, Vermont. I had never been this cold before; the wet snow seeped through my thin jacket. Though I was feeling the wilt, I couldn't contain my excitement. It was our moment to share us.

She told my story to her mom, the scent of coffee in the air, and it was even more beautiful hearing it from her lips. Reciting it almost perfectly. Never had I ever felt so seen. So wanted. So loved.

And I thought that this was it. That this is how it would always be. She would be mine and I would be hers.

As we arrived back home, I realized that there was only so much more that I could give her of me. That soon, she would know every detail, all the while I didn't know all of hers, couldn't know.

It was then, that she left me.

I'm not sure if it was accidental. Or if she felt us drifting away too, unwanting to get all the way to the end. The bliss is in the journey, after all.

For a while, I kept thinking she would come back. That she would walk through out door and bring me to a new home. But the walls became more blank and the room emptier.

***

I'm not sure how much time has passed. It feels like an eternity. I hear the neighbors on Friday nights laughing with their group of friends. I hear the mail slot on the door creak open every day, right when the sun hits the crack in the floorboard, the letters falling to the floor. I smell the raspberry jam Ms. O'Neill from down the hall makes once a month. The consistency has almost been nice, in a mind-numbing way.

I start to hear the jiggle of the doorknob. It always used to get stuck. I wish I could've helped her with her groceries when it did.

When the door opens, a man in a fancy suit walks in. Someone I had never seen before.

Behind him, is a young father, and a two-year old.

Maybe they will become my friends.