And don’t even fucking try to tell me that I don’t miss you. Don’t even think you have or deserve the audacity to do that. You can’t make me fall in love with you and then decide that I don’t miss you. That isn’t how this works. Because I miss you with every inch of my being. All I do anymore is miss you. I miss your smell and your fingers and your laugh. I miss how you would make fun of me and all of our inside jokes, our conversations about the universe and our place in the world. I miss my best friend. And you most certainly don’t get to try to tell me otherwise.
— missing you is consuming me