𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐒, w.soot

SIX.

SIX ;
voice.

E,

I haven't slept in three days, and while that wasn't super uncommon six months ago, it has now become my new normal.

Nobody tells you that the voice is the first thing you start to forget. And isn't that ironic? How am I forgetting the very voice that haunts my dreams every single time I close my eyes? You'd think it'd be the opposite. If it didn't hurt so fucking bad, i'd think it was almost funny, in an ironic sort of way.

I don't think you understand just how conflicting it is to desperately try to remember something that only brings you pain now. Your voice used to be enough to brighten my day instantly. But now?

Now I don't think I could hear it again without feeling as if my hurt has been ripped directly out of my chest. It makes me wish I had recorded you speaking more. It makes me wish I had never recorded you at all. Listening to the recordings I do have is a rare occurrence for me, but it's also a weird sort of self torture, and sometimes I can't help myself. Although, to be fair, the single time that i've dared to look through my camera roll and listen to your voice, is also the time I contacted my therapist. I haven't been brave enough to try again.

I haven't forgotten everything, though. Not yet. I see you everywhere I go, which, to be fair, is usually only as far as the living room or the kitchen. It's enough, though. More than enough. Too much, even.

I see you when I look at the painting hanging on the wall, lopsided as it's always been. You insisted that it added character to my rather boring apartment, and I believed you. Secretly, i've always found it to be a bit ugly, but you liked it and that's all that ever mattered to me.

I see you in my bedroom, on the ceiling where you made me tape little glowing stars to add a little bit of light in here when you stayed over. I don't know if I ever told you that I can't sleep in anything but complete darkness, but that hardly
mattered when the dark had always made you uncomfortable.

The hallway that we repainted that has your blue fingerprints smudged on there, the left side of the dresser where all of your things remain untouched, every single picture frame that I own that's now face down...everything in this hell of an apartment has you in it and for that I can't decide if i'm grateful or devastated.

I never quite understood it when people said that you can love someone so much that it hurts, and maybe they weren't talking about this specific situation, but I think that it applies here. I love you more than anything, but just a picture of you feels like the little progress I've made has been completely erased.

I'm a fucking coward, but I don't care.

Sometimes I just wish I could tell you how much I need you and just how hard everyday has been without you.

I love you.

Yours,
Will