iMessage
Sometimes I go through the alphabet and take letters away. One by one. Until it looks like this: A B C D F G I K L M N Q R T U V W X Y Z I stare at it for a while. Six empty spaces. Six letters that used to be there. I know exactly why I took them out. I just don’t know why I keep doing it. Maybe some part of me thinks that if I remove enough pieces of you from something as ordinary as the alphabet, I might eventually remove you from my thoughts too. But it never works. I put the letters back. Then I take them away again. A stupid little ritual. Something no one else would understand. Something you would probably never notice. And that’s what hurts. Because those empty spaces mean everything to me. They hold your name. They hold every thought I’ve tried to bury. Every moment I’ve replayed. Every time I’ve looked for you without meaning to. Every feeling I’ve pretended wasn’t there. And somehow, the alphabet feels more honest than I ever have. It doesn’t hide what it’s missing. I do. I hide it every day. I hide how much I notice you. How much I miss you when you’re not there. How badly I want to say your name without pretending it means nothing. So I keep looking at those empty spaces. Six little gaps staring back at me. And I think maybe that’s what you are to me now. Something missing. Something I can’t have. Something I keep trying to remove from myself… while secretly hoping I’ll never be able to.
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