i used to write. i used to write things that made me gleam - they made me happy.

i went back, visiting my old posts. i was surprised, i did well (for my standard). i want to write more, i swear - but everytime i was thinking about it, i felt heavy, i was always doing something else.

today, i'm writing because i'm sinking. i'm sad, i have holes in my heart needed filling. some substances, i figured, so i write.

i fell. i care too much. i try to doubt the bad things, but i failed. no, don't get it wrong. i'm not broken. i just care too much, i'm worried. i'm anxiously worried.

monday, the last i've heard from him. he was scheduled to come home today, but it's almost 5pm, i've yet to hear from him. and it's normal to feel worried, right? (...especially when you care?)

everytime my phone beeped, i hope it's news. oh goodness, this is pretty weird, and it's pretty hard too.

i won't be telling him this. he doesn't need to know. he won't have to worry about me worrying about him. no, he deserves better. he deserves ... this secret.