The sun sets differently without you

She’s sitting on her couch, blankets partly warm and the TV still on. Knees pulled up to her chest, arms thrown around them, as a way to keep herself from breaking apart.

He took a liking to breaking her apart. Liked to take pieces of her and manipulate them in his hands, liked to pick apart the crucial parts of her and make her feel loved as if she was really worth something to him.

Only to leave her feeling vacant and insignificant when he leaves.

She knew living alone was going to be a bad idea, but she didn’t know it would feel this lonely. She thinks it’s sick how much she relies on one person to make her feel whole, sick how she’s a shadow of a ghost, sitting here on her couch with nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

So instead of thinking of all the other people he chooses to spend time with, to give only a fraction of his time and attention to, she watches the sunset by herself today. Shewatchesthesunslowly, languidly fall for the moon and all it has to offer, but yet, she can’t stop thinking.

Strums of his melodies were still reverberating in her head, the words that were so different each time were poison, and no matter how hard her heart desperately tried to get it out of her, telling her how much more she deserved over this, she could never find a stable method.

And now that she’s alone, again, she stares out the window, past the tall buildings of the apartments across from her, to the invasive shine of the setting sun over rooftops. She finds the comfort that she should have gotten from the sun in the open windows of the tenants across from her.

At least someone was there.

She hoped that someone else was going through the same things he was, even though she swore she'd never wish it on her worst enemy. She hoped that someone, in those apartments across from the street, was experiencing something as barren and vast as this.

As being the last few pages in an open diary, for someone to come and write all over you, but leave no room for self-thought, to ditch you along with the other written pages in the desk drawer when they were finished with what they had to say and found better. But she quickly discards it, discards it with the nagging of wanting to be something more, and puts it into her own desk drawer. She doesn’t blame him for running out of space and needing new papers.

Some things were just more interesting, that’s all.