For a very long time

I couldn't stay alone with myself. Haunted, very much haunted, by the memory.

Saturday night used to be my favourite moment of the week, so much till it basically invented its own version of neuron. They only came out at saturday night, never on wednesday or any other days, I name them "Saturnight".

Never thought that I would see it, but I avoided my "Saturnight" for a few weeks, stored them away, because it exuded a certain sense of familiarity, like how the Earth spins around the sun in a constant rhythm, like how the breakfast on Monday taste like, like how I know I would spend it with you.

Never thought we'd have a last kiss, and end like this.

Part of me know how ridiculous it is. Part of me believes that the moment I truly let go will be the moment I get me back. I want to be brave in a way I always used to be, but haven’t been for some time.

One day, I’ll have forgotten this brief interlude of sorrow, and I'll be me again.