Music blaring violently loud
You can hear it every word even though he's wearing headphones
Not concentrating,
He quickly goes through cupboards
Finding a glass
Then slowly but surely pulls open the fridge door
He wants a drink of milk, like when he was seven and rushing around the garden til his chest hurt
Having the time of his life
Until he needed a drink
Water? Yuck. Boooooring!
Juice? His mother would disapprove of that until after dinner.
Milk? Seems like the only good option.
The boy, now a man at 22 again, chuckles to himself as the song ends and he remembers what life was like as a child.
So innocent, so pure.

Then the song ends. A new one begins.
Your song.
His hand unwillingly jerks, spilling milk on the polished-to-perfection-counter,
He curses and puts down the bottle, sliding the cap on as tight as possible so he feels he still has strength in him.
He curses repeatedly,
But not because of the spilt milk.
But because he forgot.
All pictures were deleted from phones, all text messages ignored, all social media blocked
But he forgot about the song.

He hurries to find something to mop it up
And he tries hard not to
But he lets the lyrics pour into his brain
And he begins to crumble all over again

He remembers.
He remembers you telling him
"There's no point crying over spilt milk."
Yet his eyes are prickling with tears.
He chuckles because he thinks that's what he's doing
He believes that he is crying over spilling milk on his polished-to-perfection-counter in his tiny flat in the large, daunting city.
But he isn't.
And deep down
He hears a voice telling him he isn't.

But he won't listen to that voice.
He has to get over you.
He has gotten over you already.
Angry, pathetic tears fall down his face
As he sinks down to the ground
Looking into nowhere
But seeing only you

His hands tremble ever so slightly
As he fishes around for his phone
Buried deep in his pocket.
He begins to whimper slightly
But tells himself he is a grown up
And how he needs to act like one.

He slowly and uncertainly unlocks his phone
Which no longer has a selfie of him and you as a lockscreen
And fingers shaking with regret
He presses 'delete'
Just as the song ends

And just like that
Tears pour out of nowhere
As if he was suddenly hit on the back and they were pushed out
As if he was a bottle of milk
And someone's arm jolted
So what he had been holding in for too long
Just
       spilt
               like
                      milk.