While you were busy packing, you asked me if I could help keep your towel after you're gone.
But today, as I stood in the toilet staring at the brown woolen towel next to mine...my hands felt so heavy by my side and I was reluctant to remove it from it's hanging place.
It's as if removing the towel means I have to accept that you have returned and I'm left here by myself again.
That even though you're a thousand miles away, having your towel here beside mine means having that little bit of you staying here with me.
And so I just stood there and stared, hoping that you were still here to use it, hoping that it would never have to leave the side of my towel...Just like how you and I will never have to part.
In the end, I just had to tell myself that it's just a towel, and I slowly placed it in with the laundry.
Just a towel.
That's how much I miss you now.