You begin to wear the same shirt almost daily. You sit very still.
You feel most at peace when no one is watching, you feel most at peace when you imagine he might be thinking of you like you think of him.
You let him convince himself and you and the world that the pain he caused you isn’t real. You spend days and months questioning the reality of those four weeks in London. The world agrees.
You convince yourself that nothing really mattered, and no one could truly care.
You start to resemble a crumpled gift bag in the corner of the room. You were once something to somebody.
You tell yourself you should have known better. After all your mother always told you about over watering plants as a child because you never knew how to stop giving.