It’s one of those days. You sit in the coffee shop, watching the endless flow of creatives, students, artists, and business people, eyes cast down and intensly focused.
You want to feel part of it all and yet you want to feel safe in your isolation. You see couples, hands draped on one another, and you start to feel that familiar pull. What would it feel like to be with him, just one more time? What would it hurt to tell him how much he hurt you — to break that silence that you worked so hard to build up? How much is catharsis really worth to you?
And the thoughts just continue to flood in at a tortuous pace. How much can you risk of your own self-reliance to remember what it feels like to be part of something with someone else? How much will you risk to not feel alone, even for a minute?
And you wait. You wait for the impulse to pass. The anxiety and fear and self-doubt all to subside. To feel strong again. To feel whole — without him. But this time, you hope for the future just a little less. You worry a little more. And you wait for it all to make sense. To the moment when you can definitively look back and feel complete, on your own.
