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Six years, and the silence you left behind is still the loudest thing in every room I walk into.
We were always terrible at staying together. We were a cycle of wreckage and return, leaving each other, bleeding out the distance, and then crawling back to the start because neither of us knew how to survive the quiet without the other. It was always like that, right from sophomore year, when I stood in that hallway with my heart in my throat, trying to find enough air to ask you out. You were so damn beautiful. You were beautiful right up until the second that ******* decided our story was his to cut short, taking your life and stealing every chance we had left to fix what we kept breaking.
I hate him for it. I hate the sun for coming up the next morning, and I hate the world for keeping time while mine stopped cold.
Now, I’m just a vault for things you’ll never hear. I hear a heavy, low-string guitar riff in an empty bar and my hand twitches for my phone before I remember. I see something dark or funny or tragic happen in the street and I start rehearsing how I’m going to tell you, building the story in my head like you’re waiting at home on the couch.
They tell you time heals. It doesn't. It just cures the pain like meat... Dries it out, hardens it, makes it a permanent part of your bone structure.
I’m still here, stuck in the orbit of a ghost, holding six years of useless songs and untold stories for a girl who isn't coming back.
God, I miss you.
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