My eyes snap open, rousing me from sleep.

Is it possible for an aching heart to wake someone?

The bed is faintly warm beside me, even though she's long gone.

She's not you.

My hand trails down my body each morning when visions of you, of us, play through my mind.

I go through the motions just to find some release.

Then lay covered in my own shame.

I've never felt less cool.

I reach for my phone and see nothing on the screen.

Maybe one day you'll call me and tell me that you're sorry too.

I'm suddenly overwhelmed, unable to stomach lying there any longer.

I finally drag myself from my bed, throw on the crumpled clothes I find on the floor and leave.

So I walk.

The biting Winter chill envelops me as I walk the streets.

We haven't spoke since you went away.

Nobody cares.

Everyone's oblivious.

Why don't they see?

I finally stop at a familiar spot, my hand halting on the wooden frame, as if the happy memories here will seep into my skin from its touch.

I push the door open and the usual tinkle of the bell signals my entrance.

My feet shuffle over to a corner booth, which I slink into, waiting for someone to take my order.

The pancakes here are the best, but I'm sure if I were to try and eat them, they would taste like cardboard.

I order coffee instead and when it arrives, it seems bitter to taste.

More bitter than myself if that were possible.

I lean my head on the window and watch the people walk past.

My warm breath fogs up the window and I lift my fingers to it, running them through the condensation.

Comfortable silence is so overrated.

I finish my coffee and exit the café, continuing to walk aimlessly around the city.

Rain begins to fall and I'd be perfectly happy to continue walking in it.

Hoping it will drown my sorrows.

Drown me.

But I don't, I run towards the nearest building and almost laugh out loud in misery at where I am.

We often came here to look at the variety of art, pretending we knew what it meant, inventing our own ideas of what it all stood for.

We were arts worst critics.

Frowned upon a number of times until we had to leave.

I push my unruly and slightly damp hair out of my eyes and look around.

Everything seems dull.

Lifeless.

Pointless.

Meaningless.

Empty.

Nothing.

The colours within the framed paintings sparked nothing in me like they used to.

What was once a place of happiness, love and laughter was now replaced with sadness, hurt and hopelessness.

I stand and stare, people moving around me, still oblivious to my pain.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I quickly pull it out.

But it's not you.

Even my phone misses your call, by the way.

The rain stops and I hurry to leave the place that suffocates me.

Walking is not enough.

I break out into a run, my legs and arms propelling me.

I run until I cannot run any further.

Until the ground beneath me turns from concrete to grass.

I collapse onto it, sprawling myself out onto my back, looking up to the dark, dull clouds.

Tears pool in my eyes, blurring my vision and my hands fist themselves over my mouth.

Trying to stop the roar of pain that threatens to escape.

Why won't you ever be the first one to break?

Why won't you ever say what you want to say?

As the tears escape, so does the sun through the clouds.

Through the canopy of the trees.

I lie there and cry, oblivious to the people around me.

But they don't care.

You don't care.

Maybe one day you'll call me and tell me that you're sorry too.

But you, you never do.