Our Love Died, But I Didn't Know How to Bury It

Our love died, but I didn't know how to bury it. It happened on a cold November morning in London, right on the edge of Hyde Park, where the leaves had begun to fall, painting the ground in hues of gold and crimson. I remember how the air smelled of damp earth, the taste of bittersweet coffee on my tongue, and the piercing chill that ran down my spine as she said, "I can't do this anymore."

Her name was Emily, a woman of fierce intellect and captivating beauty. She had an enchanting laugh, the kind that echoed through the room long after it had ceased. But that day, her eyes were void of their usual sparkle, replaced by a haunting emptiness that shook me to my core.

I was left standing there, staring at the place where Emily had once been, the echo of her departing footsteps like the tolling of a funeral bell. In my heart, I knew our love had died. But I just didn't know how to bury it.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. I navigated London's maze-like streets as our memories haunted me at every turn. The South Bank where we'd first kissed under the shadow of the London Eye, the bustling Borough Market where we'd shared countless meals, the quiet corner of the British Library where she'd whispered "I love you" for the first time. Each place, a gravestone for our love, yet I couldn't lay it to rest.

I tried to drown my sorrow in my work, in the ceaseless rhythm of the city, even in the bottom of a whiskey glass at the local pub. But our love, it was like a spectre, refusing to be exorcised.

I find myself now, standing at the edge of the Thames, the city lights dancing like fireflies on the water. I hold in my hand a locket, a relic of our shared past. I wonder, is this how I bury our love?

What would you do, reader, in my place? Would you hold onto the past or would you let it go, surrender it to the depths of the Thames, or perhaps to the abyss of time?