10 days, 3 months, 2 whole years.

People say that missing someone is the best thing for a writer.
That when a writer is hurting, aching, and yearning for something or someone – that is when their best work comes out.
That is when they let all their guards down, and their true emotions flow from their soul onto the paper in front of them.
Apparently when a writer is at their lowest – their writing is at its highest.
At least that’s what people tell me.

10 days.
3 months.
2 whole years and I am convinced that I would still feel the exact same way.

I am convinced that my body will still feel your absence – the way my body feels more like a shell then like a soul every single day since we last talked. How everything inside me feels empty and dark and broken.

I am convinced that I will never be able to rebuild my story. The story that I have been creating and shaping and moldings since day 1 – the same story that I crumpled and threw out the day that you decided I wasn’t good enough anymore.

I am convinced that I will always walk with my head down and my eyes shifting nervously in front of me – terrified that I might run into you on the street, or in town, or at my favourite coffee shop. Terrified that the moment I do finally see you, after all this time, that my body weight will cause me to collapse onto the cold hard ground, and you will walk away from my broken and limp body for the second time in my life.

People say that the best thing for writer is missing someone – but that was never the case for me. Because instead of my words and emotions leaving my body for others to read, they fell deep inside of me into a spot that I’ll never be able to reach.

Missing you hasn’t brought me any creativity just like the days that now lay between us haven’t brought me any peace.

10 days.
3 months.
2 whole years – and I know that I’ll still miss you just as much as the day you walked away.

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