The day that we died.

The reason I can't write or think or smile is because when I do, I'll know the truth.
And that would hurt too much.
I am angry
Frustrated
Maybe even sad.
I wonder if you feel the same way.
But this morning when you held my hand and brushed the hair away from my neck I wanted to feel something.
But I couldn't let myself.

And I wonder if we'll spend the rest of our lives wondering what could have been.

I wonder if I'll think of you when you're gone.
If you'll write me letters but won't send them.
I wish I knew why it had to be this way.
I wish I felt compelled to make things different.
I don't because I have this feeling you wouldn't care.
Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I only want to believe you don't care.

The strangest part of this entire ordeal is that I'm so entirely happy not getting what I want.

I'm cold, distant, unresponsive but I think you see past it only because you're the same way.
You've built the same walls I have.
There's something common in their construction.

I left in a hurry because I felt awkward.
I realized that I know longer understand what I'm doing.
People keep asking questions and I'm so afraid to answer them.
Because then I would know.
Your best friend looked me in the eyes last night and asked me how there couldn't be any emotion.
He wanted to know how we were so comfortable with settling for something so unremarkable.
He told me he didn't believe me. That no one else did either.
How can you pretend that he doesn't matter after six months, he demanded.
I told him, because he has pretended that I don't matter.
It's not true, he insisted.
And then I walked away.