I’m sorry. Not for asking. For freaking out and thinking I had control over what would happen later. I’m so different now, just because you’re gone. It’s pathetic how stupid and ignorant I was, but either way, I’m glad I asked you. And part of me is grateful that you talked to me as if I was insane, that you called me a psychotic b**ch. That you’re not here to make me prove my intellect to you, and to keep my mind from agreeing with my heart. Sure, it’s a cliche, but I don’t care, not anymore.
But that cry in my mind prods at my thoughts every once in a while, whispering a hope too impossible to believe.