When I wash my hands four times in a row, eight times an hour, 192 times a day- it is not because my kindergarten teacher told me it will keep the germs out. It is not because of my OCD. It is not because I need to. It is because I want, more than anything else, to extract every single memory of you from my skin.

When I lock my car door as soon as it clicks shut, it is not because my dad told me girls have it harder and I need to be careful. It is not because I live alone now, upwards of five states away from the sanctuary that is my old home. It is because I wish I would’ve locked the door when you brought me flowers and coffee because now, I am tired and I hate tulips.

When I close my eyes at night, whether I had an amazing day, or whether thinking through the day again terrifies me, all I dream of is either your crooked smile from June 14th or your cold eyes from August 2nd. In most peoples’ nightmares, they see horrifying monsters or fall from buildings. In mine, I see what once made my life worth living being torn from my grip. 

When I look at my cupboard in the morning to decide what to have for breakfast, I ignore what once was my favorite cereal because I can’t snap, crackle, or pop my trust back together in the same way you snapped my bones as if they were toothpicks. Did my tears crackle when they hit the ground at your feet? It hurt when you popped my heart like a halfway deflated balloon.

When I sold my first car, the yellow 2002 Dodge Neon, it’s not because it had 180,000 miles on it and the transmission was failing, it was because when I drove it all I could hear, no matter how loud I had the radio, is your laugh. All I could see was the tree in your front yard from the day we went to that party. Its leaves fell for me like the tears I shed for you on the last day. 

When I say “I’ll see you around,” I secretly hope that you go out on a limb one morning and call into the radio station you used to work at. I hope you answer their question correctly and win a year-long trip to Spain, then decide to move there. Not because you deserve to get away, but because when I saw you buying ketchup at Hy-Vee I vowed never to use a condiment again. 

When I told your new girl that I wished you two the best, I meant it. But. I also hope that you two will get married and have a daughter. I hope you name her Annabelle Elizabeth-Lyn just like we’d planned and I hope she brings home a boy that you swear you’ve met but can’t remember when or where. I hope you realize he is you, just young. I hope that scares you to death.