Today, I didn't stalk your Facebook wall for new shared posts. It was pretty hard especially when girls flirt with you on the comments. Thank God you don't change profile pictures too often.
Last night, I didn't check your day on Instagram before I went to sleep. You seem to always have a great day, anyway. Never have I ever seen one that tells me you might be also thinking of me at 2 AM.
Last Sunday, I crashed chocolate on my grocery list and replaced it with coffee. Routines are hard to alter but I should make mornings not taste like you anymore.
Two weeks ago, I joined a Color Fun Run wearing that white shirt. I made new memories with it to get rid of your stains. Now it's painted with specks of different colors–a kaleidoscope of people I met along while trying to move on.
It has been 17 days since I was back at not eating spicy foods. My mom was disappointed about it. She thought I finally conquered one of my fears for good, only to turn out it was just a short bliss.
Twenty-two nights had gone by and I guess I'm fine with this new playlist I listen to every night. Deleting the songs that remind me of you was the hardest part because they became my shoulders to cry on and to be honest, I am still looking for them here; hoping that when I keep on pressing next, our story will play again.
Exactly one month ago, I sent my last good night and erased everything, including the few photos you took due to my persistence. Rereading old conversations was a habit I finally gave up. It didn't do me any good; worse—my fingers messed it up with the reaction buttons.
Tonight, I am on my 8th shot of tequila in this new club with my friends. I turned down the beer you like and the bar we used to hang out. Forty days before, I was at this exact moment—missing and drunk-texting you.