A child's play

I heard the news through a close friend. The words shattering my innermost world. Arms around her shoulders in plain daylight, backgrounds of matching pictures.

She was one like me. She held my past, and my accent. But we held wildly different futures. 

I got confirmations. Explanations. Descriptions. Way beyond my will. I asked for it, without knowing what awaited for me. That you chose her, even though you didn't want her.

You signed a contract. You packed your bags, and got up and left the country. You got hotel rooms, beautiful sceneries, birthday balloons above your head. And I just watched it happen. Trying not to give an ounce of judgement, and holding myself from withering away in darkness. Had you chosen her?

You traveled far, and long. You took your tear-sprinkled sweater, and you sold out what I had asked for free, with love as a currency. But what you wanted was material and very countable, albeit an uncountable noun. Somehow, you did chose her. With her contracts, mansions, and Danish trips. With the future of a growing life provided by you. Under clausule. 

You lived a strange life under her cinematic roof and returned to tell me all about it. While I had spent the days, hours, months, holding on to the floorboards beneath me, gasping for air. Meeting strangers while I cussed the memory of you and the idea of your transactions. I never really got to know if the deal was closed. I didn't think I'd survive the answer.

Somehow I became the side role on a play I never wanted to be part of. As if I was chosen for it. 

...Now and then I re-read the manuscript,

But the story isn't mine anymore."