Your ring still sits next to my mirror. There isn't a day that goes by that my eyes aren't drawn to it. You'd probably find that funny. I can hear you saying, "Hooker, you stuck that ring there 'cause that’s where you end up every day, in front of a mirror." With an impish smile on your face, knowing that I'll fiercely defend myself against any shot at my vanity. But you enjoyed getting me riled up, didn't you? It's one of the things I miss most. I still look around when I do something dumb, expecting your sharp tongue to be there, making teasing stabs at my pride. Even now, after all this time, I still expect to hear that rich laugh ring out from beside me, harmonizing with my own. I wake up thinking that when I roll over I'll be able to catch a glimpse of your sleeping face before you open your eyes slowly, as if you'd been awake the whole time. I round corners, tricking myself into thinking that you'll be right there, as if I'd never left. And every time a door opens, you're always the one that walks through it. I miss that too. The little thrill I used to get when you'd come home. "Hey, hooker." I never asked you why you'd call me that. You'd think that would be the first question to ask. Although, looking back I guess I can see how appropriate the name was. Who am I kidding, it's still appropriate, I'm a hooker and I'm proud dammit. Proud to be your hooker, at any rate. Proud to have been, I should say. There isn't much I can say I'm proud of at this point. Living off my little brother now, can't be proud of that. Royally fucked up a bunch of the friends I made in Chicago, definitely not proud of that one. Pissed off the family, but I guess I do that by just existing so that hardly counts. But leaving you, especially for the reasons that I did, is the thing I'm least proud of. I basically said, "You're gonna kill yourself if you keep living this way," and left. Offered no help, no mercy, and no compassion. I cut you out, left you high and dry. Does that ever make you mad? I wouldn't blame you if you were furious I had left like I did. I guess that's me assuming you'd care enough about me to be mad… "Hooker, I loved you." I know you did Quise… "So how could I not care 'bout you?" Yeah, I know but - "I gave you that damn ring, didn't I?" You did… "Ain't that proof enough that I care?" Fuck. Even in my head, you always win. How could I have possibly left you? The only one who knows me better than I know myself? I can't believe I never turned back, like I had almost done so many times. I wish I would have. I might have been with you right now, instead of pretending you're with me. The horror of realizing I won't ever see you again shakes me to my core, wakes me up at night in a cold sweat. I have to remind myself it's been years, not days, since I left. You've probably moved on, you were always stronger than I was. I almost hope you have. I wouldn't wish this hurt on anyone, least of all you, but… I can't help but selfishly hope that you haven't. And that maybe one day you'll set out and find me. We'll pick up where we left off, like nothing happened, and go back to how things used to be. "What do I look like to you hooker, Prince Charming?" Shut up, I can dream , can't I?