When you breakup with someone you still love, it’s like throwing them in quicksand; comfortably sitting next to it and watching them slowly sink. Fighting for their lives, their arms up in the air, desperately trying to grab your hand and being saved. As you stare down on them, motionless. Your heart suffocating in agony, sinking alongside them.
As time goes by and desperation grows, the more likely it is that they’ll grab onto anyone’s hand. Whomever can rescue them or, at least for a minute, lift them up and ease their pain. And that’s not gonna be you. Sooner than later, they’ll be safe in somebody else’s arms. Safe without you. Elsewhere. Gone, but never forgotten. You, still sitting by this fucking quicksand. Alone. No one coming to your rescue. Not feeling anyone could nor would.
Thoughts like this constantly hit me, nowadays. That, and this fucking injury in my ankle that at this point has become a serious challenge to my livelihood. A couple of days ago, I went to the supermarket, carrying crutches on my backpack. Unnecessary precaution, according to my doctors. But what do they know about experiencing this pain, feeling helpless and profoundly alone? And, no matter how safe I could have felt, this time my anxiety got the best of me. As I was queuing at the checkout, I felt my left foot getting numb. I panicked. If it wasn’t because another checkout opened and I was first in line on that one, I would have stormed the fuck out of that shop and curled up in the fetal position at home. It didn’t get to that, but almost. Regardless, I cried my eyes out. Hating that this shit has dragged out for so long. But, mostly, missing the safety I felt while my ex was with me. How she took care of me and how, despite my resentment and distrust, I felt so protected when I was with her. Like the whole world could crumble to fucking pieces and she would always pick me up from under the debris, dust me and comfort me in her warm embrace.
If only things were different. Fuck.

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