When I first found about her, I was numb for four days. I didn’t cry. I didn’t eat either. I bathe myself every morning and evening with hot boiling water and I listened to your favourite songs. I left everything untouched. Your name was still “baby” on my phone, your missed calls left uncleared, you and your lover’s picture as my wallpaper. I needed to feel something rather than feeling this hard pressure against my chest. Who knew a broken heart could do more good than anaesthesia? I stopped writing because I knew it would hurt. But here I am, almost midnight and guided by rusty voices I hear in my sleep as they whisper your name and reassure them I was good for you. Are you really good for me? Or am I just seeing signs that the universe can’t give. I always had this principle ever since people had started to notice my writing and the messages I get were so unbelievable I had to save them, that feeling is not necessarily a bad thing because it means you can actually feel - you’re still alive. I tell that to everyone, I tell that to the boy who told me I was beautiful when my mascara was all over my face from the tears. It still hurt though. I was more experienced than I was a few years back and I thought I was ready. God, does it hurt like a motherfucker when the truth comes crashing into you like fifteen bullets on every column of the spinal cord. She had you first.