You maybe will be famous one day. Yes. You know this. You feel it in your bones. Overnight success 20 years later. One thing that you can feed off for years. You maybe will be famous enough for people to send you love poems. Letters, Small signals of distress and delight. Gifts.
In your mailbox. Your mailbox which is so often empty. But you check it in case he has sent something. A postcard perhaps. A letter. But there is never anything but envalopes with windows.
Then, maybe, you become famous. And there are all these offers of love. Lonely people undressing and lying on your doorstep in winter. Your mailbox is full of underwear. You search through it for a letter from him. He was your friend once, you remember and you have never quite shaken the habit of waiting for him to call.
Another life. A better one. But we never outgrow ourselves. We are always searching for that girl who left and made us cry. That boy who never asked to go out with you. Trying to rectify that one mistake, the lost chance. We have one life and we live it not once, but over and over. Compounding regrets with repetition.
I will repeat you. You will repeat her. He will repeat him. Ad infinitum.