It’s been fifty days since I felt anything.
Fifty days since I nearly choked on the heart that was thumping in my throat. Now it’s back in its regular boring place – I know because I check fifty times a day.
It’s been fifty days since I died fifty little deaths, only to be reborn into this mess. For fifty entire days I’ve been wanting to tell you fifty different things about the way I nearly tore all of the hair out of my head when you stole my breath.
In that one tiny moment everything went still, the lights were out and the world stopped turning, and your voice was everything I needed to guide me through the evening. But you were quiet and dark and unpredictable.
Then the sun came up next morning, though I begged it not to, and I was left to live with my fifty pains. Fifty half-faded memories. Five useless paragraphs on something that would never be.