Diary beginning 21:48 pm, Monday 11th November 2010

I don’t know where you are right now, who you’re with, what her name is or whether you’re happy or not. And I’d say I don’t care, which would probably seem true and believable to everybody else, but ultimately, inside, I’m crushed each and every morning when I realise you practically no longer exist in this melancholy town anymore. So for that reason, I’m not going to lie. I for one still believe in the notion of being true to the heart instead of weaving a million lies to hide how untruthful one can be.

Sometimes I think about you, for instance, when I’m alone and there’s nobody to distract me from the fact the space at the table you should fill at lunch time is now filled by an awkward absence. Or sometimes when I remember stupid, irrelevant things like the time I saw you trip over a broken tile at school and spent the rest of the day laughing about it until my voice went hoarse.

The problem with remembering things is that the attachment you cut off a while back remains fresh for me, so it’s kind of like a wound that refuses to heal because I keep picking the scab off. And trust me, I never mean to do it, I don’t plan to spend the day ignoring everything and then accidentally see something like a photo in somebody’s locker which kind of features you and then spend the rest of the night bawling my eyes out. I mean seriously, if this is what one person can do to another with just two words (It’s over) regardless of the reasoning (You pretty much left me high and dry on that one, if I’m honest.), then I’m through with people, and I’m declaring that right now.

Most of the time I choose to forget you, my original thought process about two weeks after you’d gone had been: How hard can it be to forget somebody? Yeah I realise how naive I was, I’ve learned since then that it’s very hard.

My rule is every time I’m reminded of you, I should run to the nearest place I can be alone and punch something until my knuckles are bleeding and I’ve cried everything out. I thought that I should collect some statistics and figures for you, because you always loved numbers so much. Since you’ve left me here, you’ve been responsible for twenty-seven panic attacks, fifty sleepless nights in which I’m tormented by nightmares, two fights and four broken door handles. So, I hope you’re happy and that those numbers make you feel good inside cause collecting them was sure as he** difficult, it would be great if they served a purpose.

I was sat at home today when it hit me like a brick that moping around and waiting for you, when I know you’ll never come is a complete waste of my time, which by the way is decreasing every second. It’s that small, faithful part of me that is actually convinced that if you were capable of caring or being human, you’ll be back soon and that it’s something I should believe in.

But then somebody else told me to sort myself out the other day, she gave me a hug too, but I can’t remember what her name is, which is tragic. That hug added to a list of many other sympathy, ‘I’m sorry you got abandoned and went all weird and now seem suicidal and careless about everything for the most part’ hugs. It was that hug which made me realise that without even being here, you’ve made me into a recluse.

And suddenly the fact you’ve left me heartbroken for your own selfish reasons means slightly less to me, because if you can afford to be happy right now, wherever you are, whoever you’re with, then so do I.

As of tomorrow, my diary will read, ‘Day 1 of freedom’ and I intend to write about all the things you ought to be kicking yourself about, since you’ll never experience them with me again.