My story is not my own, it's ours.

Mine and Vaughan's.

Except I can't remember it. 
Or him

.

I only know who I was before, and when remembering proved to be too much, I moved on and started over.

And then the dreams started.


Vivid, and bold, filled with a face I didn't know.
But he was always there.

In my head. In my heart.
And when I decided to put pen to paper, I found him whispering, "Come back to me."

Some stories are meant to be rewritten.


Others are meant to be relived.