Fiction
As I sit and stare at the window of my front porch, my mind turns blank. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way. I went out yesterday but I don’t remember a thing. It’s like being mustered by my own thoughts. I can’t stop worrying. I can’t stop fidgeting.
I. can’t. stop.
“Let’s try and make sense of what my mind was telling me”, I told myself. Speaking to our own-self does not mean we’re crazy, right? Of course it doesn’t, once again I try to reassure myself.
I miss you, I miss your scent, I miss your laugh, I miss your stupid smile, I miss your clothes, I miss your cigarette, I miss your vietnam-drip coffee, I miss your rambling when you’re drunk, I miss everything.
But who am I to say that you’re mine? You have your own task, your own life and I am just here to wait for you when you’re no longer busy (which is never) I guess avoiding me is an answer. I could be quite a buden.

P.s. the first part of this story was written in 2017, while the rest in 2019.
By: Agnes Retno Larasati
