I love myself enough to accept that after seven years, I’ve outgrown this.
I hope you make him happier than I ever would’ve, that you don’t play the mind games I did. I hope that you light up his days, that his smile fills your heart.
The problem with being your almost is that it makes me feel like I’m almost enough, almost perfect, almost worthy. Almost, but never quite there.
I’m angry for ever letting you into my life. I hate that I cared so much about you, only to now hate you.
I push people away because I can’t afford to be heartbroken, and still I always am.
I miss having someone who just understood me.
Let me show you.
I’m not sure how long I’ll be thinking of you, but it doesn’t matter. If it takes months, then it takes months.