When Does It Get Easier?


When will I pass by a store window and not, at least for a minute, expect to see you standing next to me looking at the display inside?

When will I order food without wondering what you were going to order, or wondering how we are both going to be able to try two things if we are eating alone?

When will I not burst into tears at hearing your name, sometimes even before I can make it to the bathroom and spare myself the very public embarrassment of a hurt you wear directly on your sleeve?

When will I stop caring what you’re doing?

When will I stop imagining what you look like with other people, or even how many of these “other people” have been a part of your life since I left?

When will getting out of bed and doing everyday things not seem like an unimaginable struggle?

When will I consider actually making plans again, or realize that following through with them used to be a possibility?

When will I forget your laugh?

When will I wipe my mental calendar clean of all the dates which, since you’ve left, are no longer important?

When will I stop hating myself for having lost you?

When will I be able to once again listen to all of the music that you have ruined simply by being associated with it in my mind?

When will I stop torturing myself with fruitless questions of whether you’re thinking about me — whether you’re lying awake in your own bed, staring at your own ceiling, and trying to work up the courage to make a phone call that would make all of this go away?

When will I understand that you’re not doing these things?

When will I accept that that’s okay?

When will I be able to go places without an intense fear of running into you?

When will I stop secretly hoping to run into you?

When will I understand that “we” no longer applies to my life, and that there are only so many times I can accidentally forget that before it seems intentional?

When will I start to notice other people I could possibly fall in love with, instead of being vaguely repulsed by everyone around me simply because they are not you?

When will I laugh again?

When will my happiness stop being based on whether or not you are sad, too? Thought Catalog Logo Mark


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