I wake up. A thin line of sunlight points to the right side of the bed. Her side. She’s not there. Haven’t been there for quite a while now. I stretch, fart and yawn. My broken foot hurts. It hurts every fucking morning. Carefully I get out of bed and jump in my one good foot to the bathroom. Piss. Jump back to bed. Put the music player on random in my phone. “Writing to reach you” starts playing. Every day I wake up and it’s Sunday. Shit, probably. I don’t really know what day it is now. Whatever’s in my head won’t go away. It does go away. Sometimes. I stare at the ceiling. “Where are you now?” Cause I’m writing to reach you now but I might never reach you. I smile. “Am I trying to reach you?” And you know it’s you I’m talking to. Song ends. I turn on my laptop. Facebook and the same old shit. It’s Sunday. It doesn’t matter. Everyday feels like Sunday.