eight years ago, i lay in bed the day before my finals, waiting for a text. it never came. day one of the end of good mornings. something in me already knew it then. debilitated, the sun hitting my face, i couldn't find it in me to get up.
i thought i left that part of me behind, the embarrassing dependency, the pining and insecurity, the utter lack of self-respect. but today, in a quaint cafe, as a bespectacled university student plays the Spirited Away soundtrack on the secondhand piano, i am sobbing into my matcha latte. the unvarnished tabletop drinks my tears. this despair is so familiar. a comfort. for a while i thought i had lost the capacity to feel. it turns out i am still able, just in all the wrong ways.
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