Narine
Five months.
One hundred and fifty-two days.
Three thousand six hundred and forty-eight hours.
People say time heals all wounds.
They lied.
There was no healing, forgetting, or “moving on.”
Not when every breath still tasted like his name.
Not when silence echoed the words I threw like daggers that night.
Not when I saw his face every time I closed my eyes.
I thought…Maybe if I forced the distance, if I starved my heart of him long enough, it would eventually stop beating for him. But it never did.
If anything, the ache only grew teeth.
Some days, I missed him so desperately I felt like I would die from it, like my lungs just… forgot how to breathe.
And some nights… I did die. Quietly and Alone.
I’d lie in the shitty bed of the dingy inn I rented by the month, curled i
