Hollowed.

I remember, the last conversation we had. You told me I was different. I wasn’t the person you remembered. I wasn’t the person you used to come home to at the end of the day. I wanted to tell you, that when you cut down a tree, it grows back differently. Maybe a little taller, maybe a little shorter. Perhaps the trunk a bit bent, or perhaps the leaves a different shade of green. When you completely hollow something out, you can’t expect it to grow back into what it had been before.

Over time, everything in me, had grown cold. And when something freezes over, it takes shape to its shell. And if you weren’t so busy, chiseling, molding, and shaping that shell into what I had become, you would have realized you were the one holding the shovel. The one that hollowed me out over time. Slowly, painfully, to emptiness.

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