I never told you this, but in the morning after you decided that you didn't love me anymore, I woke up to a nightmare of my hand holding yours. The dream was so vivid--for some reason, we were at a Build-a-Bear, picking out clothes for the stuffed carrot from Ikea that I got you for Christmas over a year ago. It was the dorky-type of thing that we would have done, I guess. And with every passing second, I felt everything. I felt the distance between our hands lessen with each latched finger and I felt the soft comfort of your shoulder as I leaned my head in the slightest way. I felt the tension of our words and our conversation. I felt the forced laughter that eventually would have paved a path to a 'classic moment'--as you called it--and being okay. It felt like we were recovering from a fight. 

It was a bad dream and I woke up crying. I stayed in bed for most of the day, letting whatever void of heartbreak consume me, because it was all I knew how to feel. How ironic is it that I get this kind of dream, the day after our entire world crumbles to the ground? It's even more ironic when I realized that of all the days to have a sort of "making-up" dream, it's was that day, because when we were actually still together, my nightmares were of you leaving me. Funny how life decides to throw a punch, I suppose.

I never told you this because I guess for so long, I just wanted to hold on to the darkness. "You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness," was relevant as it will ever be, but I mean hey, not anymore. I want you to know that I'm no longer disrupted by that crippling wave of sadness in the middle of a 9 am breakfast, or a 3pm walk  because I'm reminded of you. You left me, and at first it wasn't okay. I wasn't okay. But now I am great as I'll ever be, no thanks to you.

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