From that day on, I forgot exactly how I got through it.

I stopped showing up for myself.
I didn't really care about anything, but everything bothered me.
I stopped trying, and kept asking why.

I let everything pass me by,
but everything stung.
Everything stayed.

I welcomed anyone who came close,
opened the gate wide,
with warm, bitter eyes.
And I kept the door shut.
I built the wall myself.

I couldn't love again.
I didn’t want to love someone else. 
But I longed to be loved,
to be reminded that I was still worthy.

So I kept seeking it,
even when I had no space to give it back.
Even when I was running on empty.

I could breathe a little easier,
just knowing someone cared for me.
That someone could still see me
through the noise, through the mess.

It was like, even if the world spun too fast,
They still chose to offer me a little mercy. 

I was hurt.
And knowing that, I hurt others.
I was tired.
And I was tiring to love.

Still, I clung to the version of me
that only existed when I was with him.
And the version of him
that only lived in my memory.

I kept chasing a tiny hope.
Searching for the faintest chance.
Wishing, quietly,
for a different ending, a second chance, or another rewrite,
that maybe, maybe, we'd find our way back again.

Then I broke another innocent, gentle heart,
and it became the moment I abandoned myself, completely.