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You knew her once.

Now her name slips your memory as you pass her on the street and she spins in next to you, whispering hello. She does not expect you to remember her, it was too long ago for you to recall.

As you get home you find yourself scrambling to get old yearbooks, flipping through boxes of photographs that you have not touched or even thought about in years. After hours of tearing apart old memories, you will find them – questioning yourself more with every page turned, every picture tossed aside. Desperation will peak as you begin to convince yourself that she has got to be real, there is no other explanation for the sudden obsession of finding out who she is, what she might have meant to you. It will seem as though the caress on the side of the street, the subtle brush of her fingertips against your shoulder blade had never really occurred. Maybe you were imagining things, after all.

She had left no trace of herself behind; she had been so careful of that. Making herself scarce and knowing where every image was, every scratch of paper artistically covered with her name, every little thing attached to a memory that was too big to sacrifice her emotions. The day that you left her was the day that she disappeared – making it easy to forget her as the years slowly passed.

Annoyed with yourself and the time wasted in chasing a ghost, you will drag yourself to bed to drift off into a much needed sleep, but, not without dreaming of her. Her name will come to you and you will whisper it softly into the night, tasting her on your lips.

You knew her once.