Goddammit I miss it.
I miss having someone constantly on my mind and knowing I was also on his. I miss the routine “How was your day?” texts and the childish flirting that sometimes made me physically cringe but simultaneously lifted one corner of my mouth into a soft half-smile. I miss the teasing from our friends, the rare times of being alone with him, tucked safely behind the rickety, out of tune piano, watching our hands glide over the ivory keys wishing they could be intertwined instead. I miss the swimmer shoulders, the gym rat arms, the sauntering stride. I miss the screenshots, the stickers, the songs, the awkwardness, the timidity, the compatible incompatibility. I miss having a guarantee. I miss being wanted.
I miss it. And therein lies the problem. I tell myself I miss the experience, the chapter of a story I can’t seem to go back and re-read. But when I really think about it, I can’t decide if I miss it… or if I miss him.
(Written from on top of my bed, with his goddam hoodie as a blanket… This is one soft hoodie, wonder if he wants it back… LOL TOO BAD this thing is comfy af ok bye)