There's a party Friday. You will be there. The anxiety from the thought of me seeing you is killing my appetite. I will be skinny for you by Friday. Maybe I can win you back. If I can look good enough to show you what you're missing out on, maybe you'll come back. Maybe we can work things out. Maybe we could be great together, like we used to be. I can't pretend that I didn't know you, that you don't exist; that you don't know every quirk about me, and that I don't know you the same way.
I still love you, you know.
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