You don’t know how much I miss you.
But what exactly do I miss?
Not your presence. Not your attention. Not the conversations.

Maybe I miss a tiny thing — the night you were in flight and said we could keep texting, that you didn’t mind the cost. For a moment I thought it was love. But no — it was boredom, an empty stretch of hours to fill. Or maybe that was just my wrong idea. You could have watched a movie instead.

You probably forgot to tell me before you left for China. Who else knew? Am I the last to find out? Have you told anyone — family, friends? I didn’t tell my family either. Only a very close friend knows. So… was I even that close?

I don’t know what I miss from you. In the end, it’s not you I miss.
It’s me. I miss me.