Boston

A run-down city, full of revolution and beer: should be my kind of city, right? Harvard, MIT, the bus that took me to work every day, picking me up outside the tavern in my square. Quaint, right? Boston was the city of dreams, where I followed a man that I now detest. The city where he met the other love of his life.

I’m no quaint catch. I’m the face you see in the mirrored reflection in the Charles River and wished for only once.

I’m not one for romance, and Boston is the city of snow, blistering summers, and heartache like chipped brick - far as the eye can see.

Boston. The city where I saw it rain, where I saw life framed: my young twenties, my future, my face in the crowd. Gone, like their autumn sun.