They say there are five stages of grief.
The first is when I wait for you to come home even though it’s 4.37am. I wait for you for a month, and I save portions for your dinner.
The second is when I break all the cups you’ve used. I tear up all the sheets you’ve slept on. I scream at the walls for not warning me.
The third is when I call and say, can we be friends? I cooked your favourite, will you come over for a last supper?
The fourth is when you say no and I finish eating five tubs of ice cream in an hour. It’s when I lay in bed and cry over the clothes you left behind.
The fifth is when I pack up all your things and mail them to her address. I paint the walls. I scrub the floors.
We burnt alive, and I was born out of the flames.
You need to understand that I’ll never be the girl that begs you to stay. If you decide to walk out of my life, I might be sad for a little while but know that I’ll never chase you. I’ll just let you go.
I thought I saw you. I thought I saw you and I felt every bone in my body shatter. I could feel my chest tighten the way it used to every time you used to touch me or every time you looked at me and I could feel my competitive heartbeat as it raced, and raced, and raced. I thought I saw you, but it was only a stranger who had your eyes, your skin, your hair. I thought I saw you. I thought I was over you. I was wrong.
And kid, you’ve got to love yourself. You’ve got wake up at four in the morning, brew black coffee, and stare at the birds drowning in the darkness of the dawn. You’ve got to sit next to the man at the train station who’s reading your favorite book and start a conversation. You’ve got to come home after a bad day and burn your skin from a shower. Then you’ve got to wash all your sheets until they smell of lemon detergent you bought for four dollars at the local grocery store. You’ve got to stop taking everything so goddam personally. You are not the moon kissing the black sky. You’ve got to compliment someones crooked brows at an art fair and tell them that their eyes remind you of green swimming pools in mid July. You’ve got to stop letting yourself get upset about things that won’t matter in two years. Sleep in on Saturday mornings and wake yourself up early on Sunday. You’ve got to stop worrying about what you’re going to tell her when she finds out. You’ve got to stop over thinking why he stopped caring about you over six months ago. You’ve got to stop asking everyone for their opinions. Fuck it. Love yourself, kiddo. You’ve got to love yourself.
Being with the wrong person can make you feel more alone than you’ve ever felt before.