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I’m listening to your latest playlist.
It’s Saturday night, and I’m alone.
And it hurts—like, actually hurts.

But you? You still know how to make a playlist that hits the spot. Somehow, every track feels like a pulse check, like you’re still tuned in to the part of me that used to sit across from you on the couch, laughing at the dumbest memes, arguing about politics.

I still peek. Because I loved you.
Because I chased you for years.
Because I really thought I’d caught the last helicopter out of nam, so to speak—the last chance to build something full of love and safety and good inside jokes.

We had good conversation—or at least, I thought we did.

I still don’t know why you left.

And now—here I am. I met someone. He’s wonderful.
He’s kind. He listens. He says what he means. He shows up.
And still—I’m so fucking scared, F.
Like, scared in my bones.

Tonight, I poured two shots into a glass and topped it off with sparkling lime water, hoping the bubbles would lift something heavy off my chest. But they didn’t.

I want to call you.
Maybe I will.
Maybe I won’t.
You know how it is.

There’s this pull I feel toward you, and I don’t know if it’s gravity or just old habits dressed up as fate. But it’s strong. It always has been.
You’re good at leaving. You’ve always been good at that.

And I—well, I’m still learning how to stay.

This new guy? He’s great. But I keep wondering.
Because the last time I thought I knew, I got it all wrong.
So now I just… don’t know.
Does anyone?

God, I need more friends.
That’s a goal I’ve set for myself—just to build something like community again. But it’s hard, you know? Making friends as an adult.

I hiked with my nephew today. He’s only 18.
Already been through more than I have—intimate partner violence, heartbreak, the whole nine.
And it’s just—rough out here, man.
Really rough.

I just texted you: wyd.
Not expecting anything.
Just…
Had to get it out.

Silence on your end, but he just texted me….

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