I remember sitting there— wanting to die.
I remember how bad it hurt when you told me that you didn't love me anymore— that you never really did.
I remember how acidic your words felt as they made their way out of your mouth. And how my throat felt more like sand paper at that point, rather dry, and I couldn't even utter out the words: "please stay."

I can remember the look on your face. The look of anger and disappointment that ran across your face, and how your fists naturally clenched themselves, but what really scared me, was when you didn't unclench them, like you usually did. You yelled at me, "say something," And then, you did the most horrible thing. You looked me straight in the eyes, and whispered, "anything," but I was trying to find words, and I was searching in your eyes for them, and I could feel myself running out of breath.

You looked at me, with eyes of disappointment, and turned around. And when I finally got the chance to say it, you were already gone.

I remember how it felt. I remember I was shaking my head, whispering "no", one hundred and thirty-two times. I had lost you. I remember hugging my shoulders, and digging my nails into them. I was angry, my shirt held on to your smell. I remember falling to the ground, and falling apart— right there and then. I remember crying, I was crying so hard, and wondering what I did wrong. You never and told me why..

And now, I'm sitting on the bathroom tiles, and I'm further away from you, than I have ever been.