It’s late on a Friday night and he shoots me a text. My bedtime is 10, even on weekends when the noise and light of the city drown any attempt of a restful night. He says hello. I say hell no and try to fall asleep under the screams and laughs, the fainted stars and neon lights. I toss and tumble, and eventually my hand finds its way to my phone. I laugh over and over, about the torture he put me through and how stupid I was, how unbelievably immature and reckless I had been. I decide to reply. This turns into small talk. A ‘how’ve you been?’ followed by ‘I miss you’ and ‘I wish it had been you’. I try to laugh it off but it somehow gets to my heart. Finds its way into the wounds I worked so hard to heal. The wounds that left me awake for hours, the wounds that left me crying over and over. His words unravel my heart, remove all the wire and tape and glue I used to make it feel better. They trap me once again. This is what it means to be blinded by love.