It’s getting worse.
There you are, beside me driving the Range Rover and looking at me with those brilliant brown eyes. You smile every time I say something clever. And there’s me. Being the clever little girl just to see your happiness spread across your face like the warmth that spreads across my chest. I crave to be the reason you smile.
You grab my hand and plug in some music,…but I am so distracted by your next move I can’t hear anything at all. Not even your own voice. I am only aware of the ecstasy that has blinded my senses and has taken over my sense of judgement just by being in that car seat with my legs folded Indian style in that moment. And I’m okay with that for now. In that moment I am joy. I am crazy joy because my wish came true. To be with you.
There’s me now. I’m sitting Indian style alone in my room with a deserted phone that sits cold and untouched like a plague that is only a reminder of what used to be.
I’m getting sicker.
I’m getting worse.