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“I wanted to call him,“ she said, ” just to see how he was doing. But you can’t do that. You can’t talk to someone who held your heart in their palm and pretend it never happened. “I wanted to ask why it was so hard to get over him. I wanted to know if he felt pain like knives in his sides like I did. I wanted to know if he ever felt lonely when he listened to music, or if things reminded him of the memories we made. “I wanted to say that I couldn’t remember the sound of him saying my name anymore and sometimes that scared me but I knew it was important, and that our last kiss wasn’t anything like in the movies, that it was so brief the wind had swept it away before I’d had a chance to commit it to memory. I wanted to explain how now I’d forgotten everything apart from the way he made me feel, like I could do anything, like love wasn’t just for perfect people, like love could also be for me. “So my god I wanted to call him, but instead I sat on the floor and drank shots like they were tea. To be honest I don’t know if I still loved him, but then I suppose you have to love someone to miss them like that; like hell, like absolute-fucking hell.

S.Z. // Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #218 (via blossomfully)