我失眠。

When I was with you, I wasn’t happy. I was always anxious, tried to hide it, and wanted to be loved.

I’ll always care about you, but I know you don’t care anymore. It’s the same story every time, no matter which side I’m playing each time.

I still struggle to feel anything organic besides a vertigo in the mornings, and a plummet in my chest during the evenings. I still think about pressing the burning part of my hair straightener against my neck before I leave the house, or flinging myself into traffic after I’m outside. But I don’t do any of these things, and every day I try to remember the things that had happened to bring me joy, even if these things no longer function to do so, and don’t make sense anymore. I try to recreate a feeling of happiness because I’m hoping that it will stay. This blockage doesn’t seem to go away, but still I’m trying very hard to forgive myself and push forward. There is still a such a long way to go, but for now this is enough. Happy 2020.

I know that you can’t rely on a picture’s surface level to understand the actual situation underneath, but let’s just say that you can, and you see all these happy uncomplicated people. Is it because their situations are happy, or is it their inherent personality that allows them to act as a bright light, to radiate a concept of pure joy that other people can’t replicate? Or is it a bit of both? It’s just that I have a sinking feeling that even if my situation were happy, and I’d achieved everything that I reasonably believed would make me happy, there would still be some part of me, inside, that refuses to budge. That at the end of the day, it’s me as a person that’s the issue. It’s me who can never make myself happy.

And I guess I wonder whether at some point I’d get what I want and whether I’d deserve it, or whether it’ll never come and if that’s a result of me not trying hard enough or if it really wasn’t meant to happen.

Out of the different archetypes I see in comics and general media, I’m always wondering which girl I am. Then I realise I just want to be the girl who ends up with you, whichever type she is. That’s why I both sympathise with and vilify them all at the same time, because I’m constantly seeing parts of myself in them and other parts completely foreign to the way I understand myself to be.

I did as much as my pride would allow me to. Which is to say, I didn’t do nearly enough.

What better way to take control of the situation than to be the one to leave first? But it’s always possible that even after you’ve convinced yourself that abandonment is the best solution, you’ll still somehow regret it.

I have a direct conversation with you in my thoughts, because I’m not sure if or when it could ever eventuate in real life, or perhaps I’m scared of opening up like this in reality. I say all I need to say, in my head, but I can’t seem to envision what you’d say, what your responses would be. The only utterance you make in my hypothetical scenario is just a question posed in the beginning, to instigate this whole illusory dialogue. But it’s not a dialogue, is it? All I can hear are your pauses inbetween my sentences. A gap, a silence, a negation. All the honesty I had hoped to build ends up being one-sided, because this isn’t real, and what happens is just an internal monologue. Perhaps that’s also why I’m so scared of broaching these specific words out loud to you, in case I’m faced with your silence, even in real life.

I tell myself all the time these days that I don’t care, that I’m not affected, and sometimes I’m really not, but only sometimes.

I’m not sure why I miss you. Or, I do know. The main thing is that it hurts. Not to the extent where it’s unbearable, but enough for me to notice. Enough that it’s uncomfortable. I don’t talk to anyone about you, not like I used to about other guys I’ve had feelings for, because we made a point to never let anyone else know this was even happening. So now I can only internalize the hurt. I’m waiting for the next month to pass until I move to a new job, and live through a different pace and scenery - so I wouldn’t need to see you every day. And I’m not really sure whether I want this month to pass slowly or quickly. I don’t know whether I’ll start feeling better, once I stop seeing you around, or whether the discomfort will grow worse. I don’t want to lose you as a friend, but I also can’t move forward every time you pull me in for a hug, and I end up reading too much into those moments, even if they’re not supposed to mean anything. I’m not sure why I worry these days - whether my concern is solely about you, or whether it was always for myself.