It's incredible how many times I've attempted to put this experience into words, each attempt leaving me questioning my skills as a writer. Our relationship, if one could even call it that, seems too ridiculous to articulate. With you, I was always at a loss for words, never able to say no.
You were my kryptonite, my Achilles' heel, my weakness. Fighting my feelings for you was a daunting and exhausting battle. Did I ever love you? I can't be sure. Love felt like a character flaw, an elusive emotion reserved for special people.
Our journey was marked by issues, my anger fueled by confusion. You seemed to have your life together effortlessly, while I struggled to find my stride. Time slipped through my fingers like sand in an hourglass, and the problem, I concluded, must be you. Your perfectionism became the crux of our problems.
We bottled up our emotions, becoming masters at avoidance. When I finally texted you to talk, you didn't reply. The silence between us felt suffocating, and I questioned if I was the only one feeling the impending end of our relationship.
When we finally spoke, your responses were dismissive, invalidating my feelings. It hurt to realize that I was dating alone, that you were emotionally absent. Your words were just empty rhetoric to me.
We went through the motions of reconciliation, but it was too late. The love I thought I had for you faded as reality settled in. What we had was toxic, suffocating, and obsessive.
They say, "People accept the love they think they deserve." I clung to the love you gave me because I didn't think I deserved better. But I'm learning now, learning what love truly means, and the love I deserve.
Life moves forward, and so did I. Memories of you began to fade, and thoughts of you were tinged with pain. I realized I didn't love you; I never did.
And then, you came crawling back, asking for another chance. But life happened to me already, and your existence now feels fictional.