It's the first Monday since the last time I saw him, and as I wrap up and get ready to go home, I realize I'll have no one to routinely send OOTDs or bathroom selfies to. I'll have to break routine, just when I was getting comfortable with the idea of routine and constants.

Everything's still the same; it's still difficult to sleep before noon and I still mindlessly browse the Internet to tire my eyes. An attempt to fill the void, really. Most days though I just lay wide awake. Next thing I know, it's already 3 o'clock in the afternoon and I only have four hours left to sleep before I have to report for work again. It's the last week of January, and my skin is starting to break out. I suppose it's probably because my period will be starting next week. There'll be no one to tell me I'm still acceptable--beautiful, even--in case a zit grows on my face. Not that I'm in dire need of external validation. I've always brushed it off, but it never hurt to have someone else appreciate my existence. Because there are moments it gets difficult to do it alone. I can only hope right this moment that I'll cope better when that day comes. Or nights. It mostly happens when it's dark in my room and I'm alone.

There's even no more reason to get into Pokémon Go again, though that won't take away my love for walking. There's one good thing, I guess. If not for the ashfall, maybe I'd have walked home today. Maybe I'll bring a mask tomorrow and try.

Part of the aftermath is this hyper-awareness of my surroundings because the bubble I once was in has burst. Now I'm reminded of what I don't have anymore when I see a woman give her partner a peck on the lips as thank-you for taking her to work today. Then he smiles at her as he rushes off on his motorcycle. 

I don't know anymore. Things are still a little difficult to accept. They say it gets easier to hate the person, but I can't find it in me to hate someone I once loved the most. Maybe right now he still has my heart. Maybe right now he's still the one I've loved the most aside from myself. The idea of him and love still breaks me, but I can't cry in South Station right now. Crazy, but for a second or two, I wished he hugged and kissed me to try to apologize. I wished he screamed, "Surprise!" and handed me a bouquet of random flowers. Anything grand. Anything else but this.

Should I have breakfast or maybe skip it to lose weight? Should I grow out my bangs and try a new look? But side swept isn't anything new to me, as I've had that haircut since I was a kid. What for, anyway? Pretending to get into something new doesn't change anything. It'll just be a distraction, and all these will come back when things start to quiet down and I'm alone with my thoughts, as if they never left.

I do feel like a floating sandwich on outer space, out of place and completely useless, an odd sight. He said he was going to be the panini and meet me halfway. Now that that panini's gone, and I'm back to listlessly roaming this vastness on my own.

I still can't bring myself to hate him, and maybe I never will. What he did was infuriating, but that emotion isn't something I carry in my heart. That anger I feel is mostly a fleeting feeling that is then overcome by loneliness and hurt. My stupid mind still wishes things didn't turn out like this. My stupid mind still feels this pang of hurt when I see him trying to work things out with the other girl, because he never did that with me. I guess he got too tired of us, and that's okay. At the end of the day, his affection only stems from his fear of being alone and having no one else but himself. But even trying to drill that in my head doesn't take away the heaviness in my chest.

It hurts all the same.