It still hurts.
It fades, the memories, the conversations.
But if I close my eyes, sometimes, I can still hear your voice.
Talking, smiling, laughing, gently. Carefully.
And I cannot lie. It hurts. Still. To this day. Probably as long as I live.
My mistake was making you matter.
I'm the masochist, inserting my own blade into my own beating heart, fully aware of the consequences.
I still root for you. I wish you well.