The clock in my head silently keeps track of how long it has been, counting the days, the weeks, and now the months. 11 weeks today.
And I don't even know what I'm clinging on to. The memories of a time now past. Hopes of something that will never be. The love of someone who has ceased loving me.
It's easy to tell oneself to be strong, that life goes on, that things will get better. But the cynic in me now questions, will it?