It takes 422 steps from your front door to the bus stop. 422 small, well-paced steps.
When we talk it takes us five minutes, tops.
On days of particular beauty, when the rain pours on warm concrete and the air smells like our first night together, it takes six.
On the day you asked me to leave it took me ten, blood burning, heart pounding, tears streaming minutes.
I stopped at your corner, pressed myself to the cold grey wall and shuddered out a breath that tore out of my throat.
The day you asked me to leave I spent twenty six minutes waiting for the bus that we caught to school every morning.
It is a two hour journey from your house to mine. I spent that time contemplating the last two years of my life.
Did I regret everything between us?
Did I hate you for the way you had made me feel? For the way you made me believe in myself and trust in others again?
Did I hate that you had pulled me out of a hole I had dug so deep, only to push me back over the edge?
Did you mean it? When you said you didn’t love me.
Had you ever meant it when you said you did.
It was nineteen hours before I saw you again, in the school foyer where we had met every morning.
How could you still be there?
In the same jeans and shoes I had seen so many times before.
Were you wearing your favourite socks?
Were you wearing the grey briefs I said made your butt look so good?
Were you as fearful as I was?
For who would be there for you now when things fell to pieces?
Had things already fallen for you as they had for me?
This breakup left me so broken and torn and sore and lost.
This breakup left me so many questions.
I wish this breakup had stayed broken.
I wish I had known I would be okay a year later.
I wish I’d had the answers then that I have now.
And the rest.