Good Time

Chapter 1

......

sometimes in the middle of the night you're woken up by the memory of how he said your name.
you feel like your heart is spinning around uncontrollably in your chest,
and it's just a broken record of every last damn thing he's said.
if you find it hard to breathe, it's probably because his name got caught in your throat like a shard of glass,
and it burns worse than even that would.
it's been weeks since you last spoke,
and now is not a good time to call him.

you have always read poetry about missing people.
set in the early hours of the morning,
it's always seemed hopelessly romantic to be pining for lost love at three,
four,
six in the morning.
the first time a wave of missing-him hits you, it is 9:07 in the morning,
and you are clutching a mug of coffee with knotted hair spilling over your shoulders.
your feet are cold against the tiles on the floor,
and it is all you can do to not collapse against them and sink down into the ground altogether,
and finally you realise that missing people is not romantic or poetic.
it is crippling you to the point where you cannot stand to be there,
and you slide down to the floor with your back against the wall.
you drop your coffee and you don't clean it up until three days later.
you miss his arms around your waist so much that you can't breathe,
and now is not a good time to call him.

now you fall asleep on the couch every night because you can't bear to be in the same bed that he was once in.
his face is in the walls and his scent lingers on every item of clothing you own.
your own home is a torture cell that you can't manage to leave.
he made you believe that he would always be there,
and yes, the lies he told were tremendous and worthy of their own show,
but the person you have become would still sit down and watch every last episode,
because you can't get enough of the pain ripping through your stomach when you hear his name,
and now is not a good time to call him.

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