The three weeks of waiting ate me up.
Writing the text, then convincing myself to press delete.
Over and over, dozens of times.
It became exhausting.
It wasn’t about needing the last word.
It was about needing to know:
Do you miss me?
Have you been thinking about me?
If not, then good, I can move on.
I have my answer.
If you don’t reply, good, then it’s clear.
It’s 9:51pm and it’s been over 3 hours since I punched those letters for the last time.
I was over deleting it.
Sending it made sense.
And now I know.
No answer means no.
No answer means you don’t miss me too.
No answer means the surge of embarrassment will replace my yearning for you.
And at this point I’ll take embarrassment over the uncertainty.