On the 4th Sunday, in my empty bed, I hurt myself. I lay there, feeling drained and overpowered by a beating in my head. I was flooded by an urgent need to make myself see things, things that my eyes and ears couldn’t unsee, things that I knew would cut deep. I had been here before, and here I was again. Like a sado-masochist, stabbing myself, over, and over. Not with a blade, but with messages, and pictures, and writings. I scrolled through my phone, through Instagram, looked at videos and pictures of him and his ex, videos that had always been there but I hadn’t wanted to watch. And for some reason, in what seemed like a permanent anguish, I really needed to find them. Needed to open up his profile, scroll to exactly what I was looking for, find it and burn. I think I needed to feel pain, and tears, something, anything, to remind me that what we had was real. That my feelings were real. That you had feelings for me, that you meant something. Mean something. That maybe if I still care, you’ll still come back, or something.