I haven’t yet (a story of love’s end)

Linda Adams
Aug 9, 2017 · 2 min read

I woke up hung over. My head ached at all points and my throat felt dry. I was parched, but too tired to drink the water on my night stand. I rolled over to my right side. It was the first time in three weeks I did this. I hadn’t before because that was where you laid when we shared my bed. When we were together. I missed you the most on this morning. It was Wednesday and we always spent Wednesdays sleeping in.

When I play back the moment in my head of our break up, I shiver in disbelief, goose bumps remaining for more than a few seconds. We only dated for eight months but those months were the equivalent of eight years: our connection deep, sexual chemistry like I’ve never had and we spoke so comfortably with each other. We confessed our love two weeks into the relationship. I cry when I remember that day.

We were laying on my bed on the opposite side with my feet where my head normally rests. My head turned the other way from yours. A part of me trying to fight the sleepiness that was attempting control. The other part taking in the way your hand glided across my back, tracing every corner and curve. It was relaxing and exhilarating at the same time and I was moved by the gentleness of your fingers against my skin. Without even thinking about it I said, “I think I’m falling for you”.

You replied, “I already did”.

I turned over and kissed you so tenderly for what seemed like ten minutes. I didn’t want the moment to end.

That’s why I cry whenever I remember. It was too good to be true. Yet obviously time has proved it as such.

It hurts too much to think about how it ended. And it doesn’t even matter anymore. I don’t think the damage could be repaired. The memories I hold dear, what is left of ‘you and I’, involve the you I knew in those eight months we spent together. This is how I choose to heal while I mourn for our demise.

Baby steps. I took the first one today when I finally looked across the side of my bed you used to lay on. I swear I thought I noticed your shape still lingering as if you just got up. But it wasn’t your shape. And you weren’t just in my bed. It was my foggy mind recoperating from a night of drinking trying to forget you.

I guess I haven’t yet.

Linda Adams

Written by

Champagne. Words. Life.

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