Wednesday, April 29
It's been a whole 36 hours and 12 minutes since you walked out the front door. Walked out of my life. I've sat near the door like an abandoned puppy waiting for you to return, hoping you would.
It's been 36 hours, 12 minutes since I last felt alive. You were my lifeline. My anchor. My tether to the light, to happiness.
36 hours, 13 minutes ago, you were here.
And then you were gone.
YOU ARE READING
21 days.
Short StoryA journal. A pen. A heartbreak. A path to recovery. Not all drugs are in the form of a pill or a stick. Sometimes, it's brown eyed, kissed-swollen lips and a thumping heart.
