The reason you always seem to have time for painting your nails, or placing obsolete pins in your hair is not because of the lingering boredom that creeps up on you—comfortably wrapping itself around you and watching over you as you sleep, leaving you time for anything, and time to do everything—but because of the lack of change.
The lack of change that you have grown painfully accustomed to as the months usher by and as the days grow longer have become a fond relative to you.
You never noticed it, but you'd adapted. Adapted, to absolutely nothing.
You have grown, but have somehow stayed terribly the same.
Even though you may look—or act in such a way that doesn't resemble the person you were a season ago, your feelings remain familiar. Your feelings, remain the same.
So you as you bite the inner, corner of your cheek—imagining that it is the lover that you'd once had.
You realise, and accept that everybody around you has changed. And that the only reason he, didn't want you—is because of the lack of change.
