I thought you had killed yourself, you know. I woke up from a fitful sleep and I spent a few fitful hours in a conscious, jarring fear. I’ve never felt so terrified or sad or helpless. But in those moments of torturous uncertainty, I wasn’t thinking about how I felt.
I thought of you. I thought, he has to be alive. How could he not be? Is he? Has he acted on what he discussed mere hours ago? What is he thinking? What is he feeling? What is he?
I cried for you. I sobbed for you. I prayed for you. I tore myself apart for you, and then I tore those pieces into even smaller ones and cast them into the wind in the hopes that they would find you and bring you back. I loved you, but not for you. I just did.
It wasn’t enough, and that’s okay. Everything is okay because you are still alive, even though those little particles of me never reached you and never came back.
You exist. And no matter how hard I try to despise you or forget you, I always just end up pathetically grateful for that.