breakup

I still remember the days before today—before you sent me that message out of the blue, without warning, and without giving me a chance to reply; by the time I wrote my answer, you had already blocked me.

It was only now, nearly an hour later, that I started missing our calls, your voice, and your face. I miss how you would sometimes stay silent, just looking at my face, only to tell me how much you loved me, how much you loved my hair, and how much you loved listening to me talk about things I hadn't even shared with my best friend. Like a fool, I thought it was genuine—that you really meant it.

Hours earlier—practically the day before, late at night—when I got home wanting to call you, I thought it would be just another call like the many we’d already shared, never knowing it would actually be the last. I’ll remember your laughter and how happy you were to be making those cookies—the ones you kept saying I’d get to taste when we saw each other again. You have no idea how disappointed I feel now, knowing the blue necklace I was going to give you no longer holds any meaning; I realize now I could have picked any color, since it isn't for anyone anymore.

I’ll remember you as my first love, my first kiss, and the first girl who saw the real me. I don't think this would hurt so much if I hadn't grown so attached to you—that part is on me—but it’s not my fault that I don't know what I did wrong. If it really is you, you should have let me speak; you should have let me worry about you and your health—but none of that matters to you now.

I need to move on.