There is absolutely nothing left that I can do. My chest burned like embers as sorrow seeped in, slow and poisonous. It felt like tearing hope into thin strips. And if hope is the last to die, in me it already lies at rest, unflowered, kept vigil beside everything that once was love. The cruellest part was not your sudden absence, but your goodbye in droplets, because I am not good with farewells. Like a drug reduced to homoeopathic doses, your presence dissolved little by little until one day I woke up, looked at myself in the mirror, and did not see you. I found the mirror strange, I found strange the train where I did not kiss you, I found it odd that my own hands were empty, without yours to hold.
And like every addiction that comes undone, withdrawal tore through me in sleepless nights, in fevered memories, in silences that burned on my tongue. There were tremors, there was thirst, there was the illusion that a single spark of you would be enough to set me on fire again. But time kept cleansing my pores, purifying my blood, expelling you from every corner of me. Until one day I realised my mouth no longer spoke your name, and my thoughts no longer called for you. In that moment, I understood that there was no addiction left, there was no you left. Only the void, raw and clean, of a love that died inside me. Therefore, there is absolutely nothing left that I can do.