It kind of – it aches.
It still aches.
Lauren liked a photo of yours, and it came up on my newsfeed. I can see what my Dad means when he says that social media is a menace. Which makes it at least six things that we agree on. The bonding is going superbly.
I fucking clicked it. You look great. I mean, kudos to you. You always did know how to dress well. And then I clicked it again, and there was the next photo. I have superb self-control or none at all; You were always under the “none at all” category. You had that stupid, dorky, over-the-moon smile on your face and I wanted to smile back at you instinctively. And there you were with the guys from the cricket club, and there you were with your motorbike – you know what that thing does to your carbon footprint, dickhead – and there you were with my mug in your hand, and there you were with her.
That was enough to pull me back to reality. We aren’t still together. Someone else is drinking out of my mug these days. All of my clothes are safely ensconced in my own drawers. You smile that stupid, dorky, over-the-moon smile at whoever else is pointing a camera at you. You don’t comment mundane, supportive crap on my photos and then message me the comment that you wish you’d posted, if I wasn’t such a “Type A control freak" anymore. You don't love me anymore. I'm not really sure if you ever did.
That’s fine. That was my choice. I know that.
It’s just – I ache.
It aches.
