The skin on the back of my hands itch.
They itch in a way that it burns and stings.

But the pain is incomparable to the one in my heart.

I woke up to another day of nothing.

There's a person whom I talk to all the time,
a friend.
A pal.

Nothing more.

Our conversation is reduced to dry replies,
I don't know why I still try.
Sometimes, I don't know if I am my friends friend.

I start to think I'm just a nosy nobody.

My laptop sits beside me,
flashing a white hue that's quite unsightly.

It contrasts with the darkness of my room.

My skin itches again, but I can't sceatch it,
It's already wounded and bled and dried.

It's dried.

Once again, I cried.

Sometimes, I'd see messages of a few people interested in me.
But I don't reply.

I have the right not to.

But it's also because I don't want to try.

I don't want to let someone else know
All the things he used to know.

No, I don't want to tell you my favourite colour.

No, I don't want to tell you my favourite meals.

Nor the happiest moments of my life.

Nor the saddest ones.

They are all meant for him.
The answers are simply for him alone.

Only he can know me the way he used to.

Once again, I curled in on myself.
Despite the blankets on my body

I have never felt so cold.

The only good thing going for me is my academics,
a 99 equivalent to an A+.

My friend messages me again.

I respond.

The conversation grows dry rather quickly.

I want to talk, but I can't think.
I want to comfort them.

So I did.

Just like how I do every day.

I want their pain to end.

I want mine too.

My laptop sits patiently,
But as patient as it is, It stares holes into the back of my head.

I wiped my tears and got back to work.