I had a love, a great love. It’s embarrassing to still be droning on after all this time, but what can I say. It was wonderful.
We first met as children, untouched by the harshness of life. I thought that meant we knew each other wholly, that our relationship stretched beyond the bounds of reality. That we were the exception.
I knew she wanted so desperately to be exceptional, and what she liked most about us was how lovely our relationship seemed. People loved us, loved her, and that’s what mattered. Perfection. Among all that attention, I faded into the background.
She made me want to make the world a better place. I would have shaped my life to her creation, to the extent of my ability and beyond.
Our relationship was kept secret for years. I resent her for that more than I should, but it’s hard when a piece of my pride was dying for every time her personality changed form.
I needed her more than oxygen. Lightheaded, I stumbled blindly, my useless limbs knocking over what once was.
She made me out to be the villain, and in a lot of ways I was. Of course, so was she, but acknowledging those wrongdoings wouldn’t fit her self-righteous narrative. She’s made that abundantly clear.
I saw everything through what I imagined to be her idealistic eyes, from small forests to fun socks to songs that make you cry. Why couldn’t that beautiful gaze give me the benefit of the doubt? Were those eyes I knew even real, or just another carefully crafted image?
Control over myself was all I had left. I couldn’t handle the space she was after, so took our carriage’s reins and drove it into the ground. Once I did, all she was worried about was who saw me do so, what they might think of her standing in the bare wreckage.
My mind has always been filled with sinking dread and cynical quips, but hers was fascinating. She’d rant about mushrooms, or cells, or whatever else I knew nothing about, and it made the world brighter. Houseplants have since become a living nightmare.
Never reaching out, I assumed she didn’t want to hear from me. I know now that she was expecting closer in the same way I was, but we were left in a stalemate.
I’ve had people since her, sure, but they were short possibilities. Just daydreams; not blind frustration, not lost sleep, not heart palpitations.
I hate her. I hate her so goddamn much, I wish she’d get out of my fucking head.
But I loved her. I’m not sure that ever goes away. It hasn’t yet at least.
I made the right choice.
She has a boyfriend now. About four people let me know once she posted about it on Instagram. She really should be more careful about who she trusts. But that's not my concern anymore, nor are the changes I see in her personality, in her values, in her dreams. Where we used to intertwine we now leave separate tangles.
I’m growing too though. I’m changing. I’m fixing the parts of myself that I don’t like. I’m making new connections. I’m succeeding, and it has nothing to do with her. Nothing at all. It’s my hope in putting these thoughts to paper that they might be put to rest. That I might truly, finally move on.
Another love will find me someday, and maybe another after that. I’ll mourn like this again and again and again until I find bliss, because love is worth it. Until then, I’ll tend my own fire, clean my own wounds, and wait patiently.