It still hurts to sit in this room. To sit here and think that you built it from the ground up with your two bare hands. That you learned as you went and that any little mishap that survived is entirely unique to you.
It hurts to sit here and wonder if I’ll ever forget. All I can think about are the moments of silence between us in this doorway before we knew what we were getting into. When I couldn’t drag the words up my throat. When you mistook my quiet for disinterest.
It hurts to look around. To be surrounded by your handiwork but know you may never want to see me again. To glance out at the drive and not see you staring down at your boots with your calloused hands in your pockets. To forever have those handprints at the heart of my home…it hurts. It still really fucking hurts.