Sometimes I lie awake and think about him.

Does he think about me still? Did he ever? Is he still seeing her? Is he seeing someone new? Is she serious or is she just someone he’s seeing for now? Does she love him? Does he love her? Has he ever loved anyone? Does he talk to her? Does he argue over every insignificant little detail with her? Has he told her? Is he sad a lot, angry a lot, depressed a lot? Is he happy? Does he sleep well? Did I hurt him? Does he know how he’s hurt me?

But it struck me that I no longer wanted to know. And I haven’t. Not really. Not in a while. They’re just the whimsical, lyrical, far from erudite ponderings of someone who has a trouble letting go of things.

There was the period to the story of us — beautiful in its chaotically long and directionless run.

Because we never were, darling, even though we felt so much.

“I don’t ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember.. I’ll be different, but somewhere lost inside me there’ll always be the person I am tonight.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald


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