I have to admit, I don't think I've ever been so heartbroken. Yeah, maybe when the motorbike that my dad gave me on my 17th finally carked it, but over a girl? I don't believe I have.

There's this constant pit in my stomach, it just lingers like a dark cloud hanging over my head—threatening to rain whenever I actually quirk a smile. It's one of those kinds of breakups; the kind where you can't sleep, friends are tired to hearing about it.

Everything I do recently has been sloppy and lazy. All of my assignments I've turned in over the course of the past week—half assed. I've been wearing the same sweats day in and day out. They've collected all kinds of stains by now, the most recent being maple syrup from that on-campus 24 hour diner I've become apart of the decor at.

Every night, quarter to two in the morning, I can guarantee you: I'll be there. It wasn't on purpose, it just... happened. I can't stand being in my dorm because everything reminds me of you—the scent of your creamy perfume with a tinge of coffee lingering on the pillows, your clothes hanging in my closet next to mine. All of it a cruel reminder of what I lost.

It's only been just over a week since we split. I'm not sure if I'm very believing of the 'things have to get worse before they get better' saying. Things don't look like they're going up from here, and I'm gut-wrenched.

You are my everything. The one that I think about right before going to sleep, and my first priority in the morning. Before you, I was one of those grump-asses that couldn't interact until I'd had my caffeine fix. All my bad habits just evaporated once you came along. I stopped eating meals on my bed and instead we'd sit at my desk like every night was date night. Soon enough I stopped needing coffee every morning because you were my caffeine.

Now, night after night, I sit at the same cracked vinyl booth, tucked away in the dingy corner with a flickering, buzzing neon sign above my head that is way too bubbly for two o'clock in the morning. I'll do my daily rituals of checking your instagram like the masochist I am, and going down the rabbit hole of browsing through old memories of the three years we were together.

Even the middle-aged waitress with tired but kind eyes knows my business—and the chef in the kitchen. After about the third consecutive night they eventually told me to spill my guts and refused to serve my pancakes until I did. They quoted 'there's plenty of fish in the sea', told me I'd find a new girl—except there will never be another fish like you, and that pill is a hard pill to swallow.

The sound of Wendy's all-too-familiar humming gets louder as she gets closer, giving me that smile. "Pancakes with bananas and extra syrup for pancake boy. How're you feeling tonight, dear?" I just nod, smiling tightly. I dig into my pancakes—fumblingly dripping a bit of syrup down my chin and onto my sweats.

There's some nights I wish you'd just walk through those doors and tell me it was all a bad dream, that we're still together. But I know it's wishful thinking.

A beat passes. Then the door jingling snaps me out of my solemn state. I lift my head at the newcomers, giggling and laughing upon entry. My heart genuinely stutters when I see you—maybe it's my mind playing a cruel joke on me and you're not actually here. I dip my head again just in case and read over the laminated menu to appear busy—dumb move when I've already got pancakes in front of me.