I've told you that I can't forget. And that's true but maybe not the truest way to explain myself. 

I have been working on my trauma for 12 years now. That is to say, before it was even over. I've learned a lot of things and accepted even more. When I first moved away from home, your specter was invasive. I saw you in everyone I met who so much as liked the same sports teams. I spent a lot of time remembering back then. And it was these sudden, forceful memories that I came to resent the most. How you couldn't just stay 600 miles away where you belonged.

But 12 years is a long time. And I no longer think of you because of a man wearing your style of sunglasses or dripping the same brand of condescension. Now I only think of you when we're talking, which we seldom do. But there's something about the casual way that you dismiss the past that tells me that whoever this new you is, they aren't that removed from the old you. You'd resent that if I said so. But I'm waiting for the version of you that listens to any of the words that I have to say. I still haven't found him. So go ahead, tell me about how new you are and how much you resent my distrust. 

I'll wait 12 more years if I have to. And 12 more after that. Because mapping your habits kept me alive once. Even though I don't see your shadow everywhere, I'd be a fool to turn my back on the intuition that  saw me through the dark years to where I am now.