“What does it feel like, waiting weeks for him to call?” You ask her.
She looks up slowly, as though her skull is made of lead.
“He calls, and it feels like someone’s given you Valium. You’re in complete and utter ecstasy; you don’t even remember what pain feels like. He hangs up. It’s fine. You’re happy just to exist on the same planet as he does. A day or so goes by, and the high wears off. You crash, and you crash hard. Light feels like fire, whispers feel like sirens, and the breeze on your face feels like a fucking tornado. You realize he doesn’t miss you at all, and it feels like being hit by a bus. You crawl to the side of the road so you’ll be out of the way as you choke on the blood you’re coughing up and wonder faintly if any bone in your body ISN’T broken. Days go by. You realize that you aren’t, in fact, going to die this time, and you teach yourself how to breathe again. Everything reminds you of him, though, and every time he crosses your mind, you instinctively jump up to run to him, but you only wind up screaming on the floor because your broken legs can’t hold your weight and the shards of your ribs stab you. You lie back down, and he shows up. He’s as beautiful as ever, and you’re bloody, bruised, and broken, but he looks at you like you’re a fucking goddess anyway. He offers you more painkillers, and for half a second you think, "Where the fuck were you weeks ago when it hurt so badly I thought I’d explode?” But he’s still looking at you with those sweet, Bambi eyes, and you realize that maybe he doesn’t even know what he does to you, so you don’t say anything. You can’t bear to break him like he broke you, so you don’t say a word, and you take the pills. You take them because yes you’re getting better, but your chest still aches and you want to forget for just a little while and you can’t say no to him. He holds your hand and tells you it’s going to be okay, and you actually think that it will be. You think maybe this time he’ll stay with you until you heal completely, and he’ll change his mind and realize that being apart kills him like it kills you. He never does.“
She stares through you with exhausted eyes.
"That’s what it feels like. It feels like limping around with the world’s worst hangover, knowing that another bus is going to hit you out of nowhere any minute, and praying to every deity you can name that it kills you this time.”
