Not Yours

“Mine?”, she looked up at him longingly and asked, hope shining brightly in her brown eyes.

“No, Sloan, not yours”, he told her sadly as he pulled her away, her little hand pressed tightly in his.

She looked back at that puppy till they reached the end of the street and turned the corner. Silent tears streamed down her face. She was only three, she knew she’d get attention if she cried loudly but I think she was too sad for it. I think that was her first heartbreak. She’d only just seen that puppy but feel in love with him instantly. But no, she couldn’t have him, he wasn’t hers.

And here she was, twenty years later, sitting at the window table of her favourite coffee shop on a bright summer’s day, and that same voice said, this time in her head, “No, Sloan, not yours.” So she just sat there, holding back the tears, coffee getting cold, and heart being broken again.

She loved him, this boy. She was mad at him for not loving her as much. She wanted to tell him that he’d hurt her, she wanted to tell him he’d made her cry, she wanted to scream and shout. She wanted him, as love, not a lover. But no, she couldn’t have him, he wasn’t hers.

There was no one to pull her away this time though, so she tried pulling herself away. She was unsuccessful the first time, and then the second time, and then the third time, and then? And ‘then’ is a story for another day.

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