My head was throbbing, bottle loosely held in my trembling hand.  My hair was a knotted mess, cheeks blackened with makeup. My breathing was erratic, uneven, though it’d calmed down somewhat. I’d been sitting here for God knows how long, not even bothering to count the hours after the clock struck one.

Biting my alcohol soaked lip, I lolled my head back onto the sofa seat, body sprawled on the floor. I was feeling extremely woozy, unable to string a coherent thought.

I really hope you think of me and your chest tightens and you get a lump in your throat and even if just for a moment, you feel regret. So let’s ignore each other, try to pretend the other person doesn’t exist. But deep down, we both know it wasn’t supposed to end like this. They said it takes 21 days to break a habit. It’s been 134 days and your fingertips still remain on my skin, your voice still resonates in my mind, my stomach still burns with the fire you set in it. So tell me dear; what kind of habit is this?

You should’ve kept fighting for me, but you didn’t because it was easier for you to give up rather than try to be with me again.