She does.
She said so.
I miss her too. More than she knows.
No, scratch that. She fucking knows.
She knows exactly how much I miss her. She knows it's like losing a hand, an arm, a leg. It's like having a piece of my concious excised.
She knows.
I told her so.

I told him too, my bestest friend.
I told him how much I miss him.
I told him exactly how many times I have stopped my fist flying forward of its own accord. How many times I've sat with teeth clenched
and she sat in his lap

They know.
They don't care, but they know.
I told them so.

This fifteen seconds of angst brought to you complements of two people I REALLY shouldn't talk to. Ever.

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