I realized why I can’t breathe.
It’s because, since the longest time, I hadn’t needed to remember to breathe. I hadn’t needed any of the more mundane aspects of living in day to day life. Since a long time now, I’d stopped needing anything but you. Sleep would happen, food would be a passing chore. And now that I won’t have you, it’s like I don’t need anything anymore.
That’s why I haven’t been able to do anything these past few days. Light seems extravagant. Drinking seems irreverent. That’s why I can’t breathe, too. Without you, I don’t really need to.
And it’s not your fault in any way at all. It’s not like you knew how crippled I was, or how, piece by piece, I built my entire existence around you. I learnt what it was to be happy. To laugh. Bit by bit, to love myself. You were a constant source of radiance, and I felt myself glowing, near you. I grew like a flower beseeching the face of the sun. I bloomed with you, and that is the truth. But night is a truth too. And it’s night now, but it’s not your fault that I’m wilting. It’s not your fault I can’t let you go. It’s mine.
It’s mine for being pathetically weak. For letting myself dream of things impossibly beyond my reach. For turning away from every single faculty of reason I possessed, so that I could turn, blindly, to you. For hanging my hopes on wet cobwebs, for thinking I could walk to you across the clouds, for believing in happiness and magic and prayers and wishing wells. For thinking that I would be able to go back to my own deadened gaze after having met your luminescent one. The fault is mine for that.
And I can’t punish myself enough for it. For putting myself in this position where I can’t move a step ahead, or a step behind without lacerating my feet on shattered dreams. I’m doomed to this place, this cage like reverie where every wave of wishes is followed by a wash of bitter truth. And I’m drowning in them both, in the hopes and the lies, in the faith and the loss, and no one can guess it, no one can ever know it. But they’re starting to see. The walls are crumbling around me.
The mask is cracked, the smile is chipped. The wide eyed stare in the mirror is always a half tortured grimace. Truth seeps out like silent tears, and the tears do too. My facade is broken, just like I am. And I did this to myself. I’m cut and bleeding and broken completely beyond repair. But it’s all me. Look what I did to me. Is this the cost of love, that I’m paying so dearly?
And I’m sick of it. I’m sick of paying for love with pain. Of being stupid enough to think that I was ever good enough for love. For you.
It’s no wonder that I can’t fucking breathe. Why would I need to, anyway, when you’re not with me?