It’s been two years, three months and five days since our last breakup.
We were for real this time.
This time there wasn’t any “I’m sorry” or “We’ll do better next go around.” We just gave up.
We gave up on the daily texts and the hourly how was your day recaps. What we had wasn’t even a physical thing. You had the power to make my heart smile on days I didn’t want to. We were all sorts of magical.
We were all sorts of magical. When things were great, we were perfect.
When things were bad, we were disastrous. There was never an in between. I freakin’ cried when you told me about your baby.
I freakin’ cried when you told me about your baby. I still remember the time of day and where I was when you broke the news. I pretended to be happy for you. It wasn’t cheating. We were on a break. But deep down I wanted that to be me.
Deep deep down I wanted that to be me. I didn’t want to come off selfish. So I congratulated you, hung up, and cried in the shower. Before that day, I had our future mapped out. That was the official crumbling point that chipped at the foundation of of our relationship. I wanted all of you.
I wanted all of you and maybe I wanted more than you were capable of giving at the time. Even though most of “‘us” was long distance, I wanted the flowers, the candy and maybe an “I understand,” would’ve been great sometimes. I sit and ponder about us dissecting what went wrong and who was at fault for our demise. I was wrong, you were wrong.
I was wrong, you were wrong but we were so right. I was wrong for not calling you for weeks after visiting you. You were wrong for not telling me your plans to move in with your ex-wife. I was wrong for not telling you how I felt and telling you I read you and her Facebook messages. I just wanted us to be happy. I was always sweeping your flaws under the rug but the rug got too small. It got too messy. I got tired of cleaning it up, keeping a brave face and saying “It’ll get better.” I just wanted us to look like how I pictured we’d be.
I pictured we’d be married by now. I still remember the epic moment you asked me out in the crowded cafeteria in junior high. You the popular trouble maker and me the rebellious yet “A” student. You got the whole lunchroom to chant “Say yes.” Giving in to peer pressure and your charm, I said it. We were different people back then. I’d kill to go back to that moment. I wouldn’t change a thing.
I wouldn’t change a thing. Even our bad moments were memorable. You’d screw up and I’d ignore you for a few days before forgiving you. That was our thing.
Our thing, that’s what I’m calling our seven year on and off relationship. We’re friends now. We Facebook and it’s hard. It’s hard because I love talking to you but I hate talking as “Just friends.” How could you be friends with someone you were in love with at one point in your life. But how could I not be?
How could I not be holding on to the thread of our friendship in hopes of rebuilding the trust we had. You know my darkest secrets. You know every flaw. You know how to make me laugh and cry and maybe that’s why our thing scared me. Maybe that’s why I walked away. I was shocked this time you didn’t even stop me. You didn’t fight for me.
You didn’t fight for me. I took that as you giving up on me. I took that as an opportunity to seek better.Someone to fill those shoes but because of you, I have walls known as trust issues and you left big shoes to fill. Making me somewhat regret better. Maybe broken is okay. At least it made our thing interesting. Broken left me scarred but scars are souvenirs from experiences. Some of the ugliest scars came from the best times.