A harsh knock on wood makes my heart flutters then doubt. It's the sound I've been waiting for for weeks. Why has he not come sooner? He lives so close to me. Maybe he's been slowly making his way down the neighborhood strip, knocking on a new door a day, I bargain for acceptance, though I know he knows my door, and today he's reached my door. Maybe, I lie, today's he's got it right.

I open the door to nothing. Then a figure stomps tensely from around a bush on his path home.

"I don't understand," he glares in response to my hopefulness. "We haven't talked for two weeks." My face burns in embarrassment after I realize after this conversation he'll tell all my friends I'm a psychopath for checking up on him.

"Why?" He demands. I stutter over reasons in my head.
Because I still care about you.
And
It's what friends would do.

But I keep coming back to I think you forgot to return to me.

I think you forgot to miss me so you forgot to consider coming back to me.

I think I realized how much I loved you after you realized you didn't love me and I started to miss you but you consecutively stopped missing me and so you forgot to remember to come back to me.

"I'm sorry," I choke. "I thought you felt the same. I could've sworn you were still thinking of me. I've had numerous conversations and saw hundreds of futures with the you in my head. You've taken up so much space, your roots are everywhere. The past days you haven't left my mind. I wrongly thought you'd miss me too."