He was like a drug.
I couldn’t get enough of him. The way he touched me. The way he grabbed my face to kiss me. The look in his eyes when we had sex. It consumed me. Completely. My body, my thoughts, my heart, my whole being. Then, one day, unexpectedly, he said he had to say goodbye.
In the beginning, I refused to believe that goodbye. I told myself I WOULD hear from him again. That he wasn’t gone forever like a dream we can’t remember when we wake from it. I told myself he would call or text or email or send a message in a bottle. I told myself it would happen. I hoped it would happen. That hope is what got me out of bed in the morning. That hope is what got me to actually shower, to actually make myself presentable. Hope made me do those things and go through the motions. Everyday. All day. I hoped. Minutes turned to hours. Hours to days. Days to weeks. Weeks to months.
Hope is a vicious monster. Hope sucks all the power you thought you possessed as a strong, independent woman right the fuck out of you. Hope lets you think marathons of The Notebook and Adele on repeat are an ok thing.
Hope is a real bitch.