A box, tucked away

A box, tucked away

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t even a thing, and in this moment, I am fully aware that I miss something that is not you. 

As I try to pin that down, I unpackage my own head in a manner so that after this ordeal, I may simply wrap my memories of you up so neatly that it would appear untouched. I do this carefully, but quickly, as I fear the lingering of your face in the forefront of my brain serves no justice for my heart and what it may one day ache to fawn over once more. So, like a child preserving her favorite wrappings on an early Christmas morning, I lift the tape and unfold the creases in the paper, remembering how I once boxed these contents and carefully put them away, only to unveil my thoughts now that are so deeply pressed with you. 

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The end of the world

The end of the world

I’ve recently thought about what I’d do if the world was ending. If the phone lines all crashed – if nobody could contact each other… I don’t know how I’d react.

I couldn’t go to Long Island because I’d have to drive through NYC. All the roads would be blocked and that’s honestly the dumbest location to be. I can’t see my parents – they’re too far. Gas would be hard to come by and I wouldn’t be able to get as far as DC, let alone Florida.

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Continuing.

Continuing.

I once wrote a letter. It contained my deepest thoughts and feelings about you… and I never sent it. I wanted to, trust me, but ultimately, it’s now tucked into my journal—the pages torn from being carried around for so long—and it’s going to stay there, invisibly so.

I think I wrote it wrong. I think I was right to leave you be, but again, I was wrong to believe that letter could change something. I’m not sure what it was; that you’d finally understand why I was so hurt, that you’d empathize and feel for me, or that I’d convince you to love me.

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