I miss you. I dredge the internet for a map of your campus, how to say goodbye in French, and what the relative cost of living is for each of us. The answers are sterile, making my search seem like a waste of time. What I want to know is: are eighteen years all I get with you?
This contract between us was signed in blood. We fused our cells and love and repulsion into a combined existence, believing in good like kittens tucked into a gunny sack with a rock. Still, the damage is unconscionable; I’m left with a chest wound. It’s not your fault. I forced the blade through my heart, twisted it, and smiled. What I want to know is: are you prepared for this?