for the first time in years, i didn’t sing in the shower. the lights were off, and i didn’t even hum, and there wasn’t a message from you when i stepped out. my hair frizzed with the heat and i didn't stick my tongue out and take a picture, laughing as i sent it to you and when my mother knocked on the door it echoed in my chest.

even now, two days later, i’m still waking up on the side of my bed we laughed was yours and there’s a box in the corner of my room that i can’t even look at. i rip the polaroids off the wall in a fit, tear them to pieces with my fingertips until i’m crying and i’m no longer angry, just alone, and you ask me not to contact you. my fingers are stained with ink as i write this letter, surrounded by the things i spread out and uncatalogued, as if they weren't for you.

today i toured a college campus and thought about how i promised i would be at your graduation, right there beside you as you chased your dream, and i see you behind the bookshelves of a place i’ll never be. maybe it wasn't long ago but i once told you i would be there after you got home, wipe the smudges of paint from your chin and pull the paintbrushes from your ponytail as i kissed you.

i joked last night about not having to worry about finding an apartment with three bedrooms to my friends and i cried that night because one of them wouldn’t be ours.

it was always you and me against the world.

                                 when did it become just me?