v u l v a l i c i o u s
I only miss you when I'm reminded of what we had. Earlier today I told someone about the first project we did together. I didn't explain the whole thing, the lead up, the way I felt like I was tugging at you relentlessly until we found the thing we could make together. I only told her that we did this thing, that it was collaborative, that we stopped eventually.
I tried to make you sound good. I always do.
And then I came back to this hotel room, the area code the same as the one you have. You're not here, but it makes me think of you.
I pulled up that back and forth piece of writing we did together. It ends so abruptly. It's probably my fault. It always was.
So I thought about you more. Missed how I knew you'd be there. A message, that green light next to your name. A note to tell me you were going to bed and we'd talk tomorrow. Do you realize we spoke every day for a year straight? More than that? That you were one of my best friends? That I loved you?
And I realized you didn't send me a message or a chat when my mom died, and I felt a piece of me break off and float away. Maybe I wouldn't have responded. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered. But I can't forgive that. I can't forgive you.
It would bother you. I don't care.