It’s getting better.

Some nights I still wish you were here with me, just lying in bed listening to HONNE, the very first band whose music I recommended you. You said they were nice.

We never sent each other the mixtapes we probably ought to have done -just like we never gave each other birthday cards- but somehow, my memory has subconsciously recorded the songs we’ve listened to together. I didn’t think the music you liked was awful. I didn’t think that at all. I found it boyish and charming, which are traits that drew me to you in the first place.

I still can’t listen to JP Cooper’s Colour Me In Gold without having tears fill my eyes, because it holds a genuine moment that we both shared. It felt like a dream, and it penetrates right through my heart, and makes it sore all over again.

I don’t switch the fairy lights on anymore. I can’t enjoy the atmosphere of the room without imagining you walking around in your tracksuit bottoms, laughing with/at me. You still walk around this space in my head, and it smells like blackberry & cassis, lavender and peppermint.

You must know I never meant to mock. I still hate myself for writing that poem.

I will never take the tube to Tottenham Court Road station ever again. You crossed the road without waiting for me, and I remember standing there, across from where you were, wondering what had happened for it to have gotten this bad. That you’d say it was over even before I decided it was. That you wouldn’t let me stay that day, that I had to be punished for making a decision I strongly decided not to follow through with in the morning.

I slept early that night, the earliest I had ever done since I got to university. My head was burning, and I could not shed a tear no matter how much I tried. It was pure emotional fatigue taking its toll on my body, and I was afraid I wouldn’t wake up in the morning. I told you how much I loved you on the day itself but when you replied, you told me your Japanese takeout had taken two hours to arrive. So I fucked off.

I watched the Kurt Cobain documentary the other night and thought of you. I left Abi's room bawling, thinking of how beautiful you are but it wasn't right, because you couldn't share the most vulnerable parts of yourself with me. I was ready to work through the trauma you've experienced in the past with you. I was ready to stick it out.

No, I will never go to that station again because I didn’t even get to look you in the eyes one last time - you kissed me twice, then turned around and left. It was one of the most painful days of my life, and as I watched you walk away, I lost all hope in reconciliation.

I don’t ask ‘Why me’ anymore. I have done the deed by leaving. I’ve been crying, and letting myself feel everything.

It’s getting better slowly, but surely.