Just yesterday I was talking about you. I talk about you every now and then, always positively, with the sadder kind of nostalgia, because of what we could have been. I’m happy you’re happy. I’m happy you’ve moved on. I’m happy we say “Hi” in those too bright tones. It helps me feel like things are normal.

The person I spoke too, your friend, mentioned that you want me happy too. You want me to be okay. You want me to keep going after what happened. You care. They mentioned that you protect me, the way I protect you when people ask you, “What happened between you two?”

I know you’ve always wondered why I didn’t go crazy when whatever happened, happened. Why I didn’t throw stuff, spread stories and assassinate your character. I could have. I’ve done it to three others. (I’m not a good woman.) But you, you were different.

You were my friend. You were honest. “This, might not work. I’m not good at these things,” you said. I believed you. I said it was okay. I even lied that I was on the same page. I still cried though, when it didn’t. (It wasn’t me crying though, just my stupid heart having a waterworks fest.) I had no right to go crazy because you see, I had made a promise. I would let you go when the time came.

But have I? Let you go? Seeing as I still get that dull throb in my chest when I hear about her, the one who makes you happy. The one who made you good at those things you were not good at when you were with me. That made you better in a way I never did. Have I let you go? Because I can’t seem to look you in the eye for longer than ten seconds, because you might be able to tell.

You might be able to tell that it still hurts me a bit that I’m not the one.

I always say this and I always will. You are a good man. I’m a different kind of woman. It’s okay. It has to be. I hope you stay happy. I won’t forget you. I don’t think I have a choice.

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