Tuesday, May 4
The eight day dragged along and I was dragged out, my friends said I was weak, moping over you for so long. They said I needed to get out and have some fun, maybe meet someone new, but most importantly, get over you.
So, they brought me to a bar, and one too many shots later, I stumble home.
It took four rings before you picked up your phone. We spoke for over an hour and it was the first time in weeks where we spoke properly.
We joked, we laughed, and I may have been intoxicated, but I swear you mumbled "I missed this."
As usual, my hopes were higher than Mount Everest, and were deflated as fast as the speed of light - you said you had to go.
You said that couldn't happen again, that I couldn't call anymore. That I have to move on, because you've moved on.
You said sorry for everything, sorry for causing me pain; it wasn't what you intended. You thought I'd understand, that our time had come to an end because it wasn't like it used to be.
I told you it's not your fault, it was mine for not able able to make you happy anymore.
So you apologised again, wished me happiness, and ended the call.
Now I sit here, two hours later, writing this stupid fucking journal, in hopes that it would get you out of my mind if I transferred you onto a page.
It's not fucking working.
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AN; feedback is highly appreciated!
Votes and comments would mean a lot!
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.
