A Broken Heart on a Sunday Night
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A Broken Heart on a Sunday Night

It takes time to heal a deep wound, especially a broken heart.

A Broken Heart on a Sunday Night

It's Sunday night and I'm sitting in my humid apartment bedroom in my rose print black undies and a white cotton t-shirt two times too big for me, under my comforter wishing that you'd appear in the doorway with that coy smile painted on your face.

I catch myself daydreaming about how we used to spend nights like tonight, that they were my favorite ways to pass the time. We'd lay together piled next to, and spilling on top of, one another in one of our tiny extra long beds even though it felt like a million degrees; I'd always rather be sweating feverishly, having our skin stick together than sit more than a few inches from you.

It's Sunday night and I'm sitting in my humid apartment bedroom with my thumb on the screen of my phone. I am deleting my Tinder account and app permanently from my life and I think I am better than that. Meeting you was by chance, not a test that I passed by looking at five terrible pictures of your face and goofy friends with a glass of white wine in my hand. This is just a way to mend my broken heart on a Sunday night.

It's Sunday night and I'm sitting in my humid apartment bedroom and I turn my music on shuffle and our song comes on in the mix. I've been avoiding this for months; every single time it came on my immediate thought was to panic, but today...something about today is different. I listen, and then I listen again. I close my eyes and there we are - laying in bed too late to be awake on what must be a Saturday night, the room is practically silent, screeches from the courtyard whisper through the air, but the only things I can really remember are this song and our breathing. You felt like home; you felt safe.

These past few months without you have simultaneously been the most freeing and difficult ones I've had in a few years. Everyone told me breakups are hard and they always say "I'm sorry" when I tell them I'm going through one, but I never really understood why. Are you sorry it's over? Sorry, I'm sad and I just have to swallow and get over it? Why are you sorry, what's there to be sorry about? It ended, and most of the time relationships end for a reason. I am not confused, it's for the best, and for that, I am not sorry, and neither should you.

It's Sunday night and I'm sitting in my humid apartment bedroom and that means tomorrow is Monday. A new week, a new day. You know, my favorite thing about going to sleep at night is that I get to wake up to tomorrow and it's a different day. This feeling, this yearning, aching, missing-my-other-half feeling, will go away and I guess that's what's getting me through tonight. Tonight, I'm allowed to miss you, and one of the greatest things I've learned through all of this is that I'm allowed to. Our life together was all I knew for three years, and I'm allowed to miss that tonight, and I know that will go away, completely, eventually.

It's Sunday night and I'm sitting in my humid apartment bedroom scrunched up underneath the comforter. I close my eyes to go to sleep, and I used to feel like you were here with me when I searched for you in my dreams, but I can't seem to find you anymore.

It's Sunday night and I'm sitting in my humid apartment bedroom and I'm turning the pages in my book. Slowly, carefully, worried not to crease or wrinkle the paper, but there is so much more to this story than this page I've been stuck on for so long.

It's Sunday night and I'm sitting in my humid apartment bedroom and I'm finally going to bed.

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This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.
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