< "Bit busy, text you later?"
< "Hey, I'm going to bed now"
"Oh, okay. Goodnight"
"Could you do me a favour?"
Sad talks are all we have. Maybe it was different before, but my memories have always been scattered and scavanged. The pieces I found somehow didn't tell me all that you meant. They still don't mention all the fires I started. But now etched into some of the refuse that collectively make up my memories are fragments of the truth.
"I fucked up", "There's no going back", "It wasn't okay".
I'm not the person I thought I was, apparently.
I guess it doesn't matter now.