I keep writing about you. They tell me my words are beautiful, and I don't know why. Maybe because I wrote them for you. But what they don't understand is what you don't know. I stare at blank pages and open Microsoft word documents and all I feel is pure rage, frustration, and utter sadness because nothing that I write comes close to how I feel. If actions could be translated into words, I would write about me fighting back tears because I subconsciously drove to your apartment again when I meant to go to the chapter room. I would write about having to change the song on my pandora station whenever lil uzi came on because that poster on your wall was the second thing I would wake up to in the morning besides you holding onto me. I would write about running four miles with tears streaming down my face just thinking about the exact moment that you fell out of love with me, then I would stop in my tracks and collapse because I could not stomach the fact that I never had you in the first place. I would write about how much I love when my ESPN app would go off and see that Russell Westbrook scored another triple double, because I know you are jumping up and down where every you are. I would write about the emptiness I feel when I watch you on her snapchat story and you are doing just fine without me in your life. You look so happy. I'm not a jealous person, but I have never experienced so much envy. I would write about how my eyes are burning and my body feels empty and hollow at 4 am because I had taken sleeping pills and despite my body shutting down, my mind is going in a million different directions because I could not understand why you wanted an out so badly, but you couldn't even tell me why. Being up that late was only fun with you. I wish you were still around. I would write about how I don't know how to end this letter, how to stop feeling like absolute shit.