I don’t like how when I grabbed your hand the night I was crying, you laughed and pulled your hand away. I don’t like what I ended up letting you get away with.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I think I might be dead inside,” my one friend says, “Is it just me, or has this aspect of our lives become less important?”
Certain milestones pass, and the longer you’re sad, the more hopeless you feel. It’s been 6 months, now it’s been a year, now it’s been a year and a half, what’s wrong with me.
No one has to be brave anymore. No one has to go up to each other at the bar anymore. There’s an app for that.