I do not miss you.

Don’t get me wrong; you meant a lot to me. You still mean something to me, although I’m not sure exactly what something is. I think it has something to do with happiness and roses and tears and smiles and secrets and laughs and bubble baths and hearts and breaking them.

And memories. Something has a lot to do with memories.

I told you this before, but you weren’t listening. You were busy trying to figure out how to make our living room lighter. I think it’s funny how we never tried opening the window blinds.

My new living room doesn’t have blinds on the windows, in case you’re wondering. I’ve decided I like the light.

I miss having you around. The memories show us happy. I’m laughing in most of them, and you’re smiling and holding my hand. I remember our relationship as candles you lit at night (cinnamon, always). We were muted heartbeats and soft rock songs and silky sheets and I love yous whispered into feather pillows. Along with I love you, toos, of course.

I wonder how you remember us. Is it anything like my memories?

I hope so.

I miss watching you light the cinnamon candles. I asked if we could have vanilla every now and then, and you said someday. I miss having a someday to look forward to.

I miss us, sitting on the couch together. Watching re-runs of movies not worth mentioning or even remembering. You’d play with my hair during commercial breaks and ask if I liked how you fixed it. I didn’t, but I said yes just because I could tell it meant a lot to you.

We ate cold leftovers because we were broke, but we had each other. You said it’d be better someday, and I believed you.

Some times, I look back and wish I waited around for someday to come.

I miss the idea of an us; of something that was supposed to last. I liked the idea of forever, and I think you did, too.

I miss the idea of you.

But I don’t miss you.