Packing up my things. Wasn’t much left, since I only lived there part time. She wasn’t there either. I didn’t know how to feel. I wanted to take down photos of me and us, but I didn’t. I cleaned the dishes. I made the bed. Made sure it was as good as when I found it. Part of me wanted to do hooligan things, but at the end of the day, it was our place. There were a lot of good memories, some bad memories, and I didn’t want to... disrespect it, I guess.
In any case, she said I can stay there any time I want over the summer, which is a hard no from me at this point. I just... don’t really know what to feel. Empty, I guess. I’m a little mad, but I know there isn’t much to be mad about. I’m sad, obviously. There’s just a part of my life that’s missing now. And I miss her a lot. And it’s not an each day gets easier thing. It’s a “some days are great, other days suck”, just like life with anxiety and depression has been for the last eleven or so years. I’ll slowly get it all sorted. Don’t really have much choice otherwise, do I?