Five

Five months ago you broke up with me. It seems like it's been longer than that. I hardly talk to anyone anymore, the people I used to consider my closest friends hardly invite me over anymore.

Yes, I was the stupid idiotic girl that invested a full summer into you. I sacrificed time I could have had with some amazing friends for you. And you threw it away. Almost too easily.

Things are finally getting to the point where I can look at you, smile, think of the memories, and not feel ashamed for putting time into us. Don't get me wrong, I wish things would've ended differently. But part of me knew it'd happen. That doesn't mean I like it. In fact I hate that it happened. But I loved every single moment that led up to it.

Since that terrible night, we still talk thankfully. But it's not the same. Should it be? We're not in the same positions we were in before, whether I have control of that or not. I'm glad that even though most of the time I initiate conversation, you still respond. You still keep the conversation going. You still ask me questions to get to know me better. But somehow, I hate that we still have that. It's not a clean break. I'm still left wanting more. More of what I still can't have.