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Listening to songs on repeat that tell her she’s not sad anymore. She knows it’s not true, but these things take time.
She’s okay alone. She’s mastered it. There’s even some comfort in it. Cleaned apartment. Check. Laundry. Check. Groceries. Check.
Most of the fresh food will go bad though because cooking for herself and drinking too much wine alone starts to get depressing some time around Wednesday.
I am not sad.
But, she is and she knows it.
Spends hours at night trying to pinpoint where it came from as if finding that source would somehow fix the problem. Sad.
"Someday there will be fireworks behind me, I promise."
I’ll be there to watch.
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