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‪And on the last morning in this home, both my parents did the talk to me from my doorway thing whilst in bed and I didn't yell I know I know, but waking came easy. ‪Coop & I are curled up on the couch w Coffee Rush in hand watching the Christmas Eve Eve episode, prolonging the last big pack and time stood still. ‬jk, time said hurry your ass up bc u have to be at the new house in an hour and we all know u r punctual a f ;)))

only one week in, feeling so damn distant. 3:48am crying fully makeup-ed fully clothed in a queen bed that no longer swaddles u the way it should. cannot tell u if these last few days of uncomfortable communication is the Austin complex of it being easier not to speak from afar, esp if we are going to phone convo soon, or it's that something is lingering u don't care to speak into. have been talking myself out of the second one, but it always feels more of a valid event. how easy to stop caring for me when I am away—to respond w apathetic like texts if any response at all. Am I the only one who misses? we have finally hit the timeline of recursive. we have been at this point in the year before in a relationship, so now time parallels naturally. this point last year was a hard chase. it's not downhill it's not downhill it's not downhill. He says he needs not change or intrigue to keep him interested, and I beg to differ.

And somewhere in this dark, independent mind of mine, moving my parents out of this home / ridding all 'things' I am physically attached to feels like an excuse to not come back next yr. A horror of a human that may make me to not be present for Christmas, but this excess time strains my bones for all the life I once lived here and lack thereof. No wonder every "return to my hometown after 10 yrs" films exist—painfully accurate.

dear f*cking lord, he even just liked this chick in my class' bralette selfie pic but still not my ig pic. do I even cross ur mind when u like these orrrrr ///

And then I came to the conclusion that maybe some of us go through a period where we don't have people to talk to. Or at least to listen, to hear us. Ever in line with the cliche of the affirmation that cities can be the most lonely. The those of us who must walk and write and speak aloud to ourselves in order to process these thoughts and to reread the words we've regurgitated is the closest we'll come to that same love. That it takes the recline of a driver's seat parked in front of one's own house, thumbing a keyboard on an iPhone because we are desperate for understanding. Perhaps this is the price we pay for dating the boy who merely wants to date, not marry us. For living with the women who are foremost a good set up, not friends. And for befriending the cool girl who gives you all the quality time and understanding in the world until she doesn't.