I keep thinking about how nice it would be if a car hit me or if the plane I’m on crashed. Whenever work feels monotonous, or on sleepless nights like this, the feelings well up inside me—the emptiness, which only adrenaline seems to suppress. I try to deal with it as if she had already been dead for a long time, as if every emotion tormenting me is just pointless effort. I don’t want to believe that my love means nothing. I’m arrogant, aren’t I? I want my love to be more than just a memory. Am I the only one in pain? Everything I do, I do just to make it hurt a little less. I’ve screwed up. I’ve really screwed up.
What if it wasn’t cheating after all? What if I was just paranoid? It can’t be that all those signs were just tricks. There’s no way I was wrong… but what if I was? This will drive me insane.
And in the end… would I really be better off knowing the truth?
I feel like crying again.