clicking leads to clicking and somehow i end up on endless online archives of you. all the typical things you like and the things you’ve surrounded yourself with for years. angles you like to use when taking photos of yourself, things you think are pretty. even pictures of a voyage you took to a place i showed you for the first time, standing there with some other person who was somehow dragged into that fucking mess we created. pictures of your room, well rooms, but your room always looks the same somehow doesn’t it? i can almost smell it, the smell of old things and new things and hair products. little creative pieces of paper with pretty lines. i can imagine the way my feet used to feel touching your hardwood floor in the morning, the same light shining through the same windows and that sick feeling that never ever went away. making up problems that didn’t exist to avoid the problem that neither of us wanted to acknowledge or think about. i’m so fucking happy i made it out, i’m so fucking happy i had the strength to stand up on that hardwood floor for the last time, to walk out your front door for the last time.
