It's Friday morning. Just after midnight. I should be sleeping but I can't bring myself to hit the sack.
Because come sunrise, I'm going to eventually open my eyes and stare at the winter coat hanging in my closet. And my neatly folded sweaters serve to silently mock my plans of having a white Christmas. My stupid purple suitcase sits in the corner.
I've been trying so hard all day to keep a smile on my face, telling everyone, "Ah it's ok. So my plans didn't work out this time. It's cool." The fact of the matter is, it's not cool. I'm disappointed as hell. I wanted to go on a holiday. I wanted to get on that damn plane, fly 16 hours, be jet-lagged and fall asleep in his arms. I wanted to wake up on Christmas morning and see the snow fall outside my window.
Instead I'm going to spend the next few weeks wishing I was anywhere but here.