I’m a hypocrite. Or at best, a bad liar. I’m able to go and have dinner with a friend, and laugh, as if everything that happened to me was harmless. Joke like revenge doesn’t feel necessary, shrug off the months and months of pain you have caused me. But then every night, more than anything in the world, I wish we were talking again. I beg people not to go to sleep because I can’t stand to be alone with the memory of you. And that really, really, hurts, in case you ever wonder. I bought a ten pack of rings and realized that one looks like hers. I can’t wear that one anymore.
Without meaning to, I search for you everywhere. In faces, in magazines, T.V. and out in public, I’d love to ask if you do the same, but I don’t want to know the answer.
I don’t want any answers, I just want you here. But I don’t have anything. I have stuffed animals, and blankets and pillows to hide under, but they can’t stop nighttime and they can’t stop me from missing you.
I know you don’t read this, but pick up the fucking phone, I’m so sick of being sick. And you promised to never leave.