‪#‎100DaysOfWriting‬ – Day 32

I catch myself thinking about you sometimes. I find myself wondering how you are, and if you ever catch yourself thinking about me, too.

I remember things you told me, and things that you did not. I recall how your lips trembled when you once kissed the palm of my hand, and how you held on to me for a second-too-long when we said goodbye for the last time.

I hadn’t known it was the last time then, but I guess I’ve established that fact by now.

I think back to the sickening days of heart-wrenching confusion that I went through, and the closure I yearned – and could have begged – for. I didn’t beg, though. I only yearned, silently, despairingly hoping that you would offer me an explanation without me needing to ask for one.

Wasn’t it my right to know? Isn’t it still?

I suppose that doesn’t matter any more, now that the pain has reduced itself from heart-wrenching to barely bearable. It doesn’t cripple me any more, though it is omnipresent.

I catch myself thinking about you sometimes and I like to think that you think about me, too. I like to think that you miss me, that you yearn for the sound of my voice and the feel of my skin against your fingertips. That maybe your reasons for leaving had nothing to do with me. That perhaps this is for the better.

I think of you sometimes, and I honestly hope that you are happy. But sometimes, I like to think that you are not.