My mother says your name and the word rolls off her tongue like water-easy, natural, gliding through breaks and over stones - as she mentions you casually over dinner; as if you are a common conversational topic.

I don't blush. My face does not flush a bright red. My cheeks do not burn a temperature that fires envy. My hands do not shake like an earthquake rearranging the level of gravity that grounds me to reality. My heart beats in steady time like a clock running on batteries- uncertain but unconcerned about when it shall stop.

I think back to the times your name had me biting back a smile in class. Had me searching like a lost sailor at sea for the land that was your face. Had my hands reaching unsteadily for your fingertips. Had my heart running a marathon in my chest that she'd never win. A time that I would've blushed.

I stroke my caramel colored cheeks with my pointer finger and feel no radiating heat to signal my skin has been tainted pink. I have not blushed.

~Do I no longer love you?