I miss you, horribly. It's like acid, eating through my gut. Sometimes I think that I'm at peace with it, because you did what was in your best interest, and I want you to be happy. Another part of me rails against the reality that you could tell me that you love me, but that you never want to speak to me again. My heart struggles against it. How can both of those things be true at the same time? I miss my Green Eyes. I am bereft without your friendship.