What I hate most of all is that me-sized hole in the world. The relationships I should’ve grown and cherished. The family I was supposed to help. The friends I was meant to hold onto. The career and purpose I might have fulfilled. All the little ways I would spread love and contribute to my community. When I leave this world I hope that hole disappears too. I hope the world forgets the role I was supposed to play in it.
It’s okay that no one gets it. The moment you finally get a reply from someone you’re into, and the fear that follows.
Because if you never open the book again, the story ends there, right?
Maybe I get to imagine what happens next. Maybe it’s things working out. Maybe he never has to experience heartbreak again. Or maybe time stays frozen in place. He sits motionless, smiling at a phone screen, the glow from a street lamp barely illuminating the dark room, thinking of what to say back. Butterflies thump around his chest until the end of time.
And after I breathed, I could tell. So even if it’s just a sly pause in the downpour, even if the pulse is too subtle to ever make stable, even if this weathered patchwork quilt I call a heart is doomed to return to stone again someday, I can’t help but want, again.
And I know, without you saying it. I can feel those inscrutable eyes watching from the inky black, just like Emma Hale said. It’s about that time. And I understand perfectly clearly the position I’m in. It isn’t going to be anything like what I want. But there’s satisfaction, if that’s what I want.
There was a line I really liked once upon a time. A broken heart beats with all the same pieces. How funny. I guess it’s time to clean my room. Can’t have people walking through a mess.