I should feel glad that you're gone. I don't have to write these wretched things anymore. I don't have to cry, or to worry, or to panic. Because I broke it off and kicked you out.

I don't have to do stupid things, or say stupid things, or think stupid things. I don't have to hide or sleep in the bathtub. I don't have to lock the bedroom door. I don't have to wait up for you. I don't have to cry when you don't come home.

I don't have to do anything I've done for the past few months, yet...I still find myself doing some of them. I still don't know if you read any of the letters. I still don't know if you ever listened to me.

Every room seems empty without you. No furniture. No decoration. Just me.

I'm starting to regret this. I feel like telling you to go was a bad idea. I really miss you already. I've been crying since you left.

I don't know what to do. Maybe I should let you explain, or at least try to tell me why you've been doing this. But I can't. Because you'll just try and worm your way back in again, and it'll all have been for nothing.

You left some alcohol here, Gerard. I might just drink it. It hurts, and makes me feel worthless afterwards, but it's better than sitting here and waiting for you to come home...even though I know you're not coming home.

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