You’re so fucking beautiful it actually causes a pain in my chest to stare at your picture for too long. I can’t believe I let you slip out of my fingers like I did.

You’ve always been close with me, always been close with the band too and everyone in production but you were never apart of it. I would’ve asked you to join ‘cause we were that close but I’m serious when I say your talent is just your pretty face. I’m not saying it’s your only one, but it’s definitely the one you’re most well known for. Basically, you’re a model, one that struts down runways like you own it while I sat front row with saliva pooling in my mouth when you walked past me.

I’m so glad that I left notifications on for when you post, embarrassingly so. And thank God that you didn’t block me after we broke up, I don’t know why you would because it’s not like we ended on bad terms. You still follow me and I still follow you so it’s not all that bad.

I stare at your new posts, continuously flipping through the four photos. Should I like it for the plot? I think I stare at them for a solid 10 minutes before tapping on your profile and tapping ‘Message’, where I see floods of texts from a few months ago between you and I. I need to say something.

“If we were still dating, the third one would be my lock screen.”

I hit send before attaching a screenshot of the third photo of your new instagram post, you’re looking over your shoulder, figure looking perfect and your face. I can’t even put it into words how much I still love you.

Now, I pray that I haven’t just set up my own downfall and that you reply to me. Nicely.