palaces out of paragraphs//phan

1.

(Dan's POV)
"I saved every letter you wrote me
From the moment I read them
I knew you were mine
You said you were mine
I thought you were mine"

He was happy. I was happy. We were happy. And then the spark fizzed out. Wait, no, more like was dunked into a bucket of sand unexpectedly. With no reason or explanation, the previous spark just replaced with anger and sadness. And it's all his fault; Phil fucking Lester's fault. He didn't cheat, thank god - I would've handled that worse, but started to ignore me, act cold and guarded and to this day I have no clue as to why. We moved out of our Manchester apartment and split apart: no heartfelt goodbyes or even a promise to catch up in the future.

It left me broken; I didn't want to eat for days and had to move back in with my parents who's worrying only made it worse. Looking back, of course I'm grateful to them for trying to help, but at the time I just wanted to lie in bed for hours on end, and that's exactly what I did. Wallowed in self pity, consumed by my doubt.

Eventually, I got a job in editing - moved to a small apartment in London, and attempted to sort my life out. That kind of didn't go to plan. I began drinking again (again, because admittedly I had a problem previously, but Phil tried to help), but by drinking i mean fucking drinking. Getting overly drunk every night in a bar or a club, ending up somehow back home. I'm addicted. Never really been one to love partying, but give me alcohol and I become somebody else.

That's the part I don't understand, Phil practically saved me from myself yet left me to burn at the end of it. And no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, I can't get over that boy. Because how do you get over the person you loved so much when they do something to tear you apart? I've tried so many times too; regrettable drunk one night stands, a relationship that lasted for a month. I just can't find anyone who knows and understands me in the way he does - I mean he did, and it's goddamn infuriating.

But it's my fault for not completely letting go.

Refusing to believe he was really gone for months, and it's only been a year, acting as though it was just a 'break'. When our relationship first began he'd send me letters, as it was 'more romantic' then just texting me whilst we lived apart. He was also a writer,
still is I'm presuming, hopes and dreams relying on his words. I saved them. Every letter he wrote me. It broke my heart, still does, to read them, yet I can't bring myself to throw them away. It helps in a way, some closure, positive memories stored forever; I don't feel the same overwhelming sadness and anger I once did, just the dull pang in my chest of what I wish could have continued. So they sit in a box beneath my creaking bed in my box of an apartment to remind myself of how you once said you were mine. And I knew you were mine.

At least I thought you were mine.