But I am not. So I'll take the hurt. I'll let it throb in my guts and rise up like bile in my throat. I'll put it down into words like I always do, little as they may mean to anyone else. I'll let myself feel lost. I'll pull the blankets around me tight as if they could stop the cold that comes from the inside. I'll thank God for the fucking flu that means pretty soon I'll be knocked out on NyQuil instead of awake and praying for the phone to ring.
And maybe it's the fever talking, but I'll hold out the tiniest of tiny hopes that this isn't really another ending. The hopeful heart gets broken more than it gets held, but also gets another chance now and then.