As I watch you from a distance, I hope you are happy, and I hope the ones you love know how lucky they are to have you. I used to wake up every day feeling I was the luckiest guy in  the world, and knowing that whatever would happen I would still have us. I used to have plans; I used to paint the future in bright colours. I also used to have something to say to you when we talked, or at least we could share the silence with no awkwardness. I hate myself for not being able to come speak to you even though I never missed you as bad as I do now, I hate not being even a friend and letting the little that was left of us die. I used to be strong but I feel the persona I thrive to maintain,  that façade of everyday happiness is eating up the little thats left of that strength, and my Jungian anima is being slowly erased. I miss you, but, selfishly, what I maybe miss most of all is the one I was then.