It's not the way that they/he thought it would be.
They're tired of avoiding. Exhausted of pretending. Dying inside smiling widely.
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*taking place in 2017*
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(the story is ongoing but you can stop reading it after every chapter and make your own co...
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CONNOR
The first thing I see as I wake up is my phone. And immediately I remember what I did in the middle of the night.
I picked up my phone. I talked to him.
I talked to him, talked to him, talked to him.
it was
no
it's been
so good to hear you again
again?
so bad bad bad that I heard you again
we should not let me say again
we should not have ever stopped have ever been
stopped
we should not be again
we should be still
or
over
it has been good to hear you again
I stop typing and look at the words. I don't know what to think about them, so I just save this thing that you can consider a poem and turn off the screen.
The light coming out from the window seems to be trying very hard to wake me up or at least entertain me somehow, and I feel kinda sorry for its effort. I can't get up from bed. I try, but my body doesn't cooperate with my mind. I just can't.
I roll on my bed only to accidentally look at my closet. The door isn't closed, so I can see every hanging sweater and shirt, every pair of pants folded neatly and put on white shelves.
I haven't thrown away his things, because why would I?
It's all I've got.
Throwing his things away would mean that I want to get rid of him, that I don't want to remember.
So I stare at the black hoodie, two over sized sweaters and a few shirts that once belonged to him. I wonder if they still do. If you wear someone's clothes, are they their or yours? Do they ever stop smelling like the other person? If you wash them, do they still have this other person's touch of skin on them?
