Eight months, twenty three days and many bottles of wine after, I told myself I was over it.

That whenever my office mates suddenly speak of your name, I wouldn't flinch or clench my jaw in pain. Rather, I would listen in and laugh about it. That I would be gladly telling them ridiculous stories. That sometimes, after talking about you, they would ask if I'm already okay.

And, yes, I would nod and flash them the biggest grin I could muster.

Yes, it may look like I was fooling myself into moving on. It was a stupid idea brought about by the bartender-- who was a good cook, too-- recommended me.

He told me that faking would get me to my real destination sooner or later.

And sometimes, I feel like as if the lies I spoke through my teeth so precariously at the start became truth inch by inch.

Until I could speak of your name and not feel a pinch in my heart.

Until I could tell people I'm okay, when really, I'm halfway there.