You. Her.

That used to be me.

This person you are now; this one that’s writhing in pain on that bathroom floor. I used to be you. I once was you. Standing by helpless, watching the one thing I was sure of in this life walk away, slowly. Watching my anchor crumble in my front.

“It’s paining me!”

I know. It hurts. And it will hurt even more. And more. And then some more. Your insides will twist, your stomach will churn. You will wake up every day and on a lot of those days you will wish you hadn’t. You will have days when you will consider inflicting physical pain on yourself in a bid to distract from the heaviness inside you that’s wrenching at your gut. Maybe you will.

You will stay by the door waiting, watching. Your eyes will tire from the strain, but strain them you will. You will first build a fire there to keep you warm, then you will build a house to keep the naysayers away. And you will shut them out, briefly. Your legs will grow heavier and crumple under the weight of your closed eyes. You will snore lightly, exhausted from your wait at the door. You will sleep. You will wake. Slowly. And angrily. Angry at the glimmer of hope that wakes with you, in direct dissonance with the realisation you have in your gut; he did not come back. He will not come back.

But you will wake up one day, and it will occur to you that putting one foot in front of the other was easier today. In fact, now that you think about it, it’s been easier for…how long? You will not be able to recall.

You will wake up one day and hate her a little less. And a little less each day, until you don’t see her anymore.

“How do you know?”

I used to be you; now I am her.

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