I’m sad. I’m lonely. I’m hurting. I’m numb.

We spent two weeks infatuated with each other. Do you remember? Unable to put down our phones; to not be touching or apart or without.

You took an Uber from your work to me, just for fifteen minutes and a kiss. I told you I was sad, and found you outside with a car waiting. I couldn’t stand the thought of ending the day with you sad.

We broke up for the first time the end of that week. I told you I was too scared, because I knew I would love you too much.

That was the first weekend we spent without each other.

This is the second.

I played Sunday Morning, and cried an incomprehensible amount of ugly tears.

I don’t think you ever loved me as freely as you did then.

I downloaded all of our texts. I can pinpoint the exact moment you decided to stop.

The difference between you and me is that you were capable of doing it–of loving me at arm’s length. I spent every day thinking about you; about what you were doing, how you were. If you were happy, and if you weren’t–how to make it so.

I spent every day since consumed with the thought of you. Of your hands in mine, the curvature of your lips and the feel of your skin. I did things for you I never allowed myself to do with anyone else; I allowed myself to love like my father did, to place my heart into unwilling hands and pray for the least hurtful outcome.

I lied to you, that weekend. I told you I wouldn’t get hurt, that I understood. The truth is I always knew. From the second I met you. It was the trepidation of meeting you again. Of constantly thwarting all of our dates.

I hurt myself to know the feeling. It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault.

I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who complimented me so well. Who taught me so much. Who made me so happy; so alive. I called my brother after our first date. Told him I met someone who was just it. I was so afraid of telling anyone else about you. I just wanted to keep you to myself. To hold as much of you as I could.

It’s weird: to know that we end like this. Me: loving you too much. And you–who I don’t think I know anything about.

 

I liked to say you were my forever, even though I knew that loving you came with an ending.

I hope you find your happiness.