She should be writing about a thousand and one things now but there she was staring at those pictures of him she kept.

She wondered how it would have been, had they still been talking.

She wondered whatever she did wrong that made things worse.

And she missed him.

She missed him terribly, it hurt.

But she should be writing about a thousand and one things anyway – –

– – Like the fact that sometimes, you don’t get the things that you so sincerely wish for. And you can only write about it, along with a thousand and one other things, and a thousand and one more.

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