It's been almost a month. I haven't shed a single tear; my skin is, for the most part, clear. And so is my conscience. My mind isn't afflicted with constant thoughts of you, although I do sometimes wonder if you've found a way to remain consistently well .. or, like me, are sometimes stuck in hell. I know that it's for the best, this newfound ability of mine to leave you be in spite of the fact that, once upon a time, you were such an important part of m–– my life. Yet it seems that I just cannot let sleeping dogs lie. Our relationship was toxic, but I loved you and I still do. I think I always will; just like I always did, throughout everything we went through, your lies and my loneliness. Isn't it ironic, how I stood by you as you tried on different faces, embodying different skins and lives? How I allowed myself to be dragged along, following like a mindless accessory behind you? In retrospect, you remind me of an overtly critical fashionmonger, trying on article after article in a frenzied search for the right fit. You told me you were one person, then another .. and another. It's only recently that you've come to terms with the reasons for your previous discontentment, but I don't buy it. I don't think you'll ever be satisfied with who you are because you can't the truth without having some effing breakdown. Isn't it ironic, how you conveniantly twisted things to suit you? Whatever. I hope you're happy, whoever you are now.