Dear Dallas,

I don’t think I can ever survive this.

It has been exactly seven days, eight hours, and twenty-five minutes since you implicitly dumped me. Since then I can only ever think about you and how you whispered sweet nothings in my ear. How you called me your queen. Or how you patted the top of my head and kissed my forehead when we were freezing our asses off at my place.

You don’t understand how this little break of yours has affected me. Lately I have found myself at a loss for words. It does not make sense because I always have words for everything, even if I am under so much pressure. I cannot write about anything other than you.

I am terrified that you are not coming back but I am also frightened that I will spending a good amount of my time waiting for someone who has no intention of coming back.

I guess I am writing not to beg for you to come back. I want you to give me a concrete answer. I want you to be sure this is what you want because when I get back to my senses and realize that I have been watering a dead flower all this time, there is no turning back.

Is that what you’re waiting for? That I hit my head on the pavement and suddenly I come back as an empowered woman with the highest sense of self and will not take shit from confused guys like you? A lady who knows her place, who wouldn’t budge at the sight of a boy who wants to have a taste of all the candy in the store? A person who cares about rights and the oppressed and not about who says I love you first or the minutes it took for you to reply?

I’m exhausted, Dallas. Really exhausted and confused and hurt and it’s fucking impossible to move forward when a part of me is still with you. Either you give it back and tell me it’s over or you come back and stay for the long haul.

Make up your mind.

Z

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