And yes, this is still about you.

Maybe I am getting better. Everyday, the corners where our stories are imprinted greet me with mockery—reminding me of the tales of joys and pains we drew with our hands, our footsteps, the inhales and exhales we shared and gave each other. I face them—without a blink, without hesitations, and I let every morsel touch me. I let it wound me. I let it tickle me. I let it push me back to my bed that’s used to be the warmest part of my apartment.

The agony of waiting and hoping destroyed me, consumed me, and made me an indignant, heartrending figure of misery. But I guess I am starting to learn how to pick myself up, little by little. Nonetheless, I am numb and I have misgivings about the attention and (maybe) love that people are showing me. Fuck trust. I am not ready to give it—at least, not now. And fuck love. I have nothing left to give.

But still, I am hoping that one day, I’ll find myself back—not in your arms, but in that state when I am genuinely happy for cooking and preparing meals at 5 o’clock in the morning. Genuinely happy for washing the dishes, for washing the clothes that are not even mine, for waking up in the middle of the night just to check if everything’s OK, for getting drunk just because I am celebrating my life with someone else; those moments when I am indisputably blissful for sharing what I know and for giving more than what’s expected; those moments that I can say I am really in love and there is no turning back and whoever goes along the way would be damned because I fight for the person whom I truly love.

I miss you. I miss us.

But what I’m missing the most is that unadulterated loving self who doesn’t care about the but’s, what if’s, and what the fuck’s.