It's 3am and you're not here, even though I can still remember the feeling of your arms around me and the taste of your lips. When you said "I'm sorry, this just isn't working any more", it felt like you reached out with your long-fingered hands and ripped out my heart and some lung and a few ribs for good measure. I wondered how long you'd felt that way, how long you stayed with me out of pity and if you even loved me in the first place. Of course, I really didn't need to ask that last question, since you asked it yourself. Thanks for that, really.

I haven't really felt loved since the last time you held me. It's been a long few months. That hole in my chest where you used to lay your head is just... There, like a cold rock would be there, and I've been trying to find someone to help me patch the hole, but it's just too big.

I know I'll survive this. I know I'll be ok, and if I don't find someone else it won't be the end of the world. I just want to know why I feel like this. Why can't I be happy with just my books and my cat and my job and the rest of my non-life? Why do I need the feel of another person's skin against mine? And damn it, I'm sick of being strong. I want somebody else to deal with this for a while.

And it's 3am and I'm sick and I want more cookies, but I'm out of milk. Maybe things will be better in the morning. Maybe sunlight can warm my skin the way your breath used to. Maybe...

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