Two fifty am, my eyes are getting tired, but I'm not ready to sleep yet. I've been watching The Mentalist on Netflix; it's nice. Jane is a charming character and helps me get my mind off things, from thinking about you, from the emptiness, as it requires me to focus.

I don't know what I am writing about or for anymore.

There was this once: a friend of mine said she was coming home with you while you were sitting next to me, and I explained that she was only splitting a cab with us and she would be walking home from mine after because we live close to each other, and you said your heart dropped when you heard that.

I wonder why you would say that, cause it seemed so easy to forget about me and get on with your life. All the things you did made me think that you actually had feelings for me, that you actually wanted this, me and you.

I don't know what I did that made you change your mind, that cost you your feelings for me. Or maybe you were just drunk, or you were just saying stuff without thinking, and I am the fool who took everything a little bit too seriously.

I shouldn't have listened or taken your words so seriously, deep in my heart.

Now, looking back at all my writings to you, I do seem like a fool, holding on to that hope and keeping lying to myself.

Truly, I don't feel any pain anymore; even when I look at the pictures I took of you, all I feel is how beautiful you are, but of course, I still couldn't look at them for too long, I just couldn't. I need to forget about you. I don't want to but I need to.