This is me alone... (3)

I think today went pretty well. I didn't talk to him at all. I thought about texting him, but then I remembered that we've split. Sometimes it doesn't feel real. It's only real because of me.

I don't have much to say today. I was busy and that kept my mind off the tremendous heartache I'm feeling. I'll lay in bed and stare at the ceiling soon and that's when I'll think about it. How nice would it be to creep my ten little ice cubes onto his stomach and watch him squirm? How nice would it be to pull the tiny hairs on his chest with my lips? How nice would it be to wake up with him?

The over-sized shirt on my teddy bear only smells like me now. I wonder if he would loan me another.

Thursday is coming... and I'll see him then. I wonder what I'll do. What if I forget and throw my arms and legs around him and whisper in his ear "I miss you." I hope I do that.

This frustrates me the most. He doesn't understand that I love people. I'm not sure what it is, but I feel like I have a connection with everyone, especially people I've never met. It must be my passion as a journalist. I want everyone to feel the way I do about people, even the most recluse and eccentric. Everyone has a story and if the audience would only hear that story maybe they would understand. Maybe the fear and name calling would cease and we'd all be happy. I fear that this passion will end up making me more dysphoric, because idealism only goes so far before runs into reality.