two-hundred & sixty-two.
People tell you they're there for you, and it's easy to believe. It's easy to believe you're not the only person suffering, that they can understand, that you can be saved somehow. It feels nice. It feels safe. It feels right.
What they don't know is that the loneliest place in the world is my bedroom floor, and how easy it is to curl up against myself and cry. That words are nice, but that's all they are unless you can hold true to them and gather me up when I rip at the seams.
It's hard not to feel alone when the only person who can hug you is yourself.
I wish you were here, Amber.