the most bittersweet page in my book

I held on so tightly, my hands were bruised when I let go. I hated myself because I couldn’t hate you.

For a year, the only thing I heard from you was the sound of your footsteps - always running. Always running away.

I am one thousand, one hundred and twenty-two days free of your brutal goodbye. Three hundred and eighty of those days were an amalgamation of bloody stakes and half dug graves and inescapable insanity.

But then came the healing. The beautiful, alleviating, soft, gentle healing. Did it come for you too? Did you wrap yourself in its embrace?

I have labelled you every name under the sun. My muse, my assassin, my coffin, my bullet to the head. But all these years later, you are just a collection of moments, packed away into boxes and mailed to the second-hand store. I have no need of this sad story any more. I have outgrown it.

I hope you have swallowed every drop of happiness that I have, and I hope you didn’t feel even a hint of the pain that I did.

You will forever be the most bittersweet page in my book. And I hope, one day, you can say the same for me.