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On the first of November, I turned eighteen. I expected to feel different but, of course, I didn’t. I don’t think age has much to do with adulthood.
People move on quicker than I can comprehend. People forget you within days,
He’d decided to end it and never talk to me again, so why should I get sad about it? He was the one who was in the wrong.
Every time I decide he just doesn’t like me any more, I start to doubt myself because he hasn’t told me anything.
I just miss him
I just want to hear his voice
I felt too alone in my bedroom and I didn’t want to turn the lights off because I hated the dark. I couldn’t stop thinking. I couldn’t turn my brain off. I felt like I was panicking. I was. I was panicking.
He didn’t hate me. He didn’t hate me.
I don’t want to … do this any more …
I’m sure you think I was complaining about nothing. You probably think I’m a whiny teenager. And yeah, it was all in my head, probably. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. So fuck you all.