If it did, I’m sorry. It’s far too little way too late, but it’s there, if that makes any difference. I’ve learned my lesson, but the chance to use that knowledge is past. It’s too late, I know.
Still, for every bit of sadness, there’s one of anger. Anger at me, and anger at you.
It was selfish of you, is what I tell myself I’m feeling now. Selfish that you would voluntarily do this to me. This was a choice, not some whim of fate or bad luck or an angry god. You chose this for both of us. Did you think of me when you came to your decision? Did I cross your mind?
I tell myself that I need to move on. Staring at a clock wishing it to go backwards is a waste of time. You made your decision, and I’m living in the aftermath. So, time to start living.
Am I mourning? Should I be? Was yours a mourn-able action? I’m caught in the middle of anger and sadness, in the lukewarm nothingness. I know I’ll feel both, and I dread it as much as I yearn for it.
Every space you touched is now touched by your absence. The car, the house, the bed. All are different, now. Filled with the void you left.