It took me one thousand and ninety-five days to cultivate myself into a person who is not nervous or excited in front of you. I kept telling myself that this was the last time. The last time I started to miss you from the moment I left you. The last time I wanted to look for you no matter where I was. The last time my heart was cut by a knife because of your neglect. The last time, the last time I told myself that you liked that person, like a perverted extreme. . . . . .