I haven't cried about it in days, I just haven't given myself the time. I go to bed at 5am and spend every night with my friends and working myself to the bone, never taking a moment to not be doing something, to not be engaged. Between safe rooms and sharing with friends I never have to go back to my own apartment unless I want to. And I never want to. I never stop trying to get away.
But eventually, it all catches up. Eventually I have to leave my "safe space", the pathetic mix of friends' room and that tiny little cube that I'd rather be in than my own, carrying my heavy bag that essentially contains my life and permits me to run from my problems. I have to walk by his car at 3:30 in the morning and shit, that never gets any easier. To think of how he used to come stay with me whenever he was here that late. About how he's probably holding her, kissing her, doing all the things we did. Giving her those sweet kisses on the forehead, or the side of the neck, or the cheek, as she drifts to sleep and pulling her up close to him like he used to do to me. It doesn't get easier.
The only way I get through it is by imagining futures that don't exist. I don't want to name them, because childishly, I can't bring myself to speak them out of existence. It's funny, because I'm not normally superstitious.
I can't keep going on like this, running at 150, averaging three to four hours of sleep, abusing stimulants and sedatives to control my limited sleep and productivity. It's destroying my grades. It's destroying my mental health. But I've left myself pretty much no other options.