I remember reading somewhere that memory has a link to doorways. That whenever you pass by a door, you tend to refresh your mind and forget something. And to retrieve the lost memory, you just walk back through the same door and you'll remember the information when you stand in the first room.
Our old house used to be a small, simple space; on just one floor and not many rooms. We've filled the house with so many memories, we didn't have space to make compartmental rooms. Every gap had our scent and laughter; we've touched every single square of our walls and floor, all the way up to our ceilings.
But then the laughter started to stop and the space felt too small. It was hard for us to breathe and secretly we started to scratch on the walls, hoping we could find a way out. You did it first. You left and took off in the night while I was alone, thinking what should I keep and which should I bail.
Determined not to remember what we had because you went oh so easily, I built myself a new house. Instead of a simple one-floor plan, I built a house that stretched long and far, with many doors in between. Maybe if I go through countless of doorways, I'll be able to really forget about what we had, about you, about us. And maybe by the time I reach the final door, it's like the first house, and you and I never existed.