I kept waiting for the moment for you to delete me, again. In every sense of the word. I don’t know why you didn’t sooner. You’re so good at pretending that I don’t exist and that I never have, and that in the unlikely event that I actually had, that it was of little or no concern to you. Like I’m some stranger you shrugged off on the street and kept carrying on with your day. I don’t know if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of that.

I don’t get sad anymore. Not in the quintessential sense of the word. I just feel more dead inside. Like I can’t be bothered to feel anything because it’s all too much effort. Instead, it’s just this overwhelming heaviness that grips my chest, and forces me to fake a smile in the company of others. I resign myself to feeling like a fucking idiot and being to pack up all the pieces I had gotten out to put back together until you’d strewn them about again.