I would never in my life admit that I miss you.
Even if it means calling you in the middle of the night, all sad and with my voice cracking while you’re asking “what’s wrong” and I tell you “nothing, I don’t even know why I called, I’m just tired” although it tears me apart not to hear your voice for a night or not to have you lying next to me after not seeing each other for a while, leaving me only with my constant fear of you loving me a little less one day than you used to do. But I would rather cry myself to sleep at night, than to tell you that I miss you. Because if you missed me too, we wouldn’t be sleeping in different beds right now.
I’ve reached the point in my life where I don’t really care about impressing other people. It’s great if they like me just the way I am - but if they don’t that’s their loss, and it doesn’t really matter.