There are some nights when I still crave your touch. When the breathing in my room sounds hollow, unaccompanied by yours. When the impressions on the bed are different than I’m used to. When I find my arms wrapped around a pillow that I know should be you. It’s late at night. These are the thoughts I have before bed. The thoughts that keep me up so late. I’m falling asleep. When I fall asleep, I’m gone. But I keep waking up. It’s late at night. I feel you, still.

The truth is, it’s been a year since we broke up. 8 months since we started talking again. 7 months since you met someone. 3 months since we had sex again. 1 month since I met someone. I read somewhere that as you get older, time seems to go by faster, that the minutes turn into days, days into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. But some nights, I find myself in bed. I feel still. I feel time stop. I feel my throat closing in. It’s late at night. I’m awake without you.

We were together for what seemed like an eternity — what you promised would be one. I still remember all of the ways you made me smile. Your jokes, your hands, the way we talked late into the night. I thought we’d invented our own language, our own way of speaking that no one else could crack. We’d pass each other little notes, little whispers, traveling from your mouth to mine, your lungs into mine. We’d share a breath. It’s late at night. I can feel your chest, rising and sinking. Mine doing the same.

Sometimes I wonder if he makes you happy. If you’ve already developed your own language. I wonder if he knows your favorite color, the way you like your eggs, if he makes you smile the way I did. Sometimes, I wonder if you’ve already said “I love you” — but that thought hurts too much. I wonder if you lay in bed together. I wonder if he holds you in the darkness. It’s late at night. You’re sharing our bed.

I told you that I didn’t want to become the person I spent so long hating. When I found out what you did, I called things off. I wanted to stay. But I knew that I couldn’t. So I deleted you. I threw out all your gifts. I threw out all your clothes. I spent so much time blaming myself. I started eating less. I exercised more. I stopped talking to people I cared for. I blamed the way I looked. I blamed the way I acted. I just wanted to be beautiful. “Not for him,” I would say. “For me.” I spent so long obsessing over myself. I forgot about you. Then you said hello again. Then you kissed me. It’s late at night. You’re still kissing me.

We got into your ride. We stumbled a bit, but found our place. And you kissed me. Like you never had before, each touch inviting the next. I kissed you back. I kissed you harder. I looked at you, and I saw the way that you looked back. You made me feel so beautiful. The way you held me in your arms, our little bed in the back seat of your car could’ve been a beach. Could’ve been paradise. Could’ve been Heaven. I was yours, completely, entirely. Because that’s always how it’s been. I’ll be yours, you’ll be another’s. It was late at night. We were quiet.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t handle it. I still can’t. We both knew what we were getting into. I told you that I didn’t want to become that person. The person that you used to betray me. The person that had you when I should’ve. The person who stole you. But you can’t steal from someone what they never owned. Sometimes, I wonder if you’ve told him yet. It’s late at night. I’m always wondering.

I guess, on being the other person, I have everything to say. I want to say I’m sorry. I want to apologize for letting myself become the other person. To say that I’m sorry to the people I hurt because of you — including your new boyfriend. I knew you were on your way to loving him. That’s what makes this so much harder. In the end, I’ve always been the other. You looked at me, but you also looked at him. And when you looked at him, you looked at me, too. I knew you did. I liked it. It’s early morning. We’re in your bed.

I want to say that I’m different now. That things have changed. And they have. I still remember you, but I don’t feel the same way I used to. I still remember you. I’m only human. I spent so long blaming myself. But I can’t do that anymore. We don’t speak now; I wanted that, and I asked for it. I got what I wanted. I don’t know if you’ll read this. I hope you don’t. I’m still weak. I’m still that same person. The person who you pushed around. The person you manipulated. The person you walked away from. So often do we forget that the people who make us smile only do so after they’ve crushed us. It’s late at night. I’m walking away. I’m only dreaming. I’m right where I started.

There are nights when I crave your touch. Then there are nights where I quiver at your name. The second kind are slowly starting to outweigh the first. I told you I would always be yours — I whispered it into your mouth. You never returned the breath. You just kept breathing in. I’m happy without you. I’m happy without us. And I’ve met someone who makes me feel different. Better. We’re starting to form our language. It’s small now; baby talk at best. But we’re going somewhere. It’s late at night. I doubt myself.

Because no matter where I go, I see you. In the playlist he makes me. In the way he looks at me. In the way he holds me. His chest rising up and down, I see your shadow on the wall, your breath escaping his lips, your phantom limbs reaching out to me. I can still feel you. And then, I see you. I see you look at me. Then I see it’s the same way you look at him. We’re all other people. We’re all others. In our history of constructed talks, some words become the same. Patterns start to form. Chests rise, fall. Breathing in and breathing out, I recognize you just as you recognize me. It’s late at night. I’m talking in my sleep.

And I’m starting to see me in myself. Starting to rely on me. There are nights when I crave your touch. There are nights when I crave my own. I looked to you for happiness. I wanted to breathe with you. Now I just want my own bed. My own impressions. My own breath, filling my mouth, resting on my tongue, selfish and only for me. And sometimes, for him, too. But I’m more careful now. You’ve taught me that. In our history of constructed talks, I’ve learned a word or two. They’re words that hurt to say, that cut my lips and blister them. They’re words I say with a sigh, words that turn more into exhales. Words that don’t inhale. It’s late at night. I clutch my pillow. I don’t clutch you.

I think I’ll never stop breathing you in. But I’m slowly learning how to breathe you out. The moon still sets, the sun still comes out. Some days pass by so slowly. But the nights are always fast — I’m falling asleep, I’m gone. The only thing that keeps me up is these thoughts. My room is silent, but I’m breathing loudly. You taught me how. First in, then out. Always out. If you hold something too long, it loses what it was. No longer it’s own thing. Yours now, a part of you. Breathing is the same. In our history of constructed talks. I’m always the other person. But that’s only because you’re the one holding me. And you’ve been holding me too long.

It’s late at night.

I’m falling asleep, I’m