where is my boyfriend?

singlehood sickness

I’m scared to write this post. I’m distraught about publishing it. In doing so, I’m publicly admitting that I’m despondent about something I’ve gotten good at playing indifferent about. I’m admitting that it’s a persistent sore spot: not an emergency please-call-911 case, but a dull ache of leathery scar tissue there to remind me something about me, my …