Twenty-one days to make or break a habit, they say. Or it’s written. Either way, that’s what I hear.

Twenty-one days is an almost myth. It took twenty-one seconds for you to open a door and punch your way inside my chest.

Twenty-one is an almost lie. It took twenty-one hours for me to know I loved you. It terrified me, love. It terrified me to know how unresistant I was. Or, how inevitable you were.

Twenty-one is an almost truth. You have to unlove as hard as you loved, unwant as much as you yearned, uncry every regret, unfuck up every day you went wrong. That’s Forty-two days to do and undo. And twenty-one years can come and go and if I don’t recognise your hand in a crowd, I’ll change my name.

But.

Six months. I’m nearly done. I am close to better. Closer to fine. A breath away from being over you. On some mornings I let myself believe I am almost happy.

Twenty-one days is an almost peace.
Almost.