I listen for your footsteps down the street, but there is only the wind and the night.

I feel that pit in my stomach every day when I come home now, will there be a letter from you? It is that time again, when two weeks have nearly passed, without a word. Your cat and mouse pattern says you will come around soon again, to see if I am dead yet, or if you can play some more with me.

Will I resist that childish, innocent handwriting of yours? Will my heart betray me, once again?

Will you stand outside my door again, head hanging, saying how sorry you are, that you never meant to hurt me?

The fear and paranoia are lurking behind the corner of this dark October afternoon, they are thugs ready to jump me anytime, rob me of all the thin protective layers I have dressed my ragged soul in….

I feel this silly, stupid pride of not having reached out to you. In the cosmos, eleven days is a blink of an eye. For me, it is a lifetime of grief. But I have done it. For eleven days I have chosen sanity, clinging to it even though the longing for you claws at me, like crows gone mad.

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Some moments this awful “missing you” curse, cuts so sharply through my pride, a hunter’s knife through butter, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

I will choose myself today, too. I do not know about tomorrow, I will not make promises to my heart and soul anymore, only to break them once again.

But today. Today I choose myself.