Something is wrong, but I don’t know what it is. I know my heart is broken, but it has been breaking for more than a month now, so I should be over it by now.
I want to ask if everything was lie. I go back to the text messages and I try to pin-point where I stretched too far out. Where it stopped being two people leaning out to touch each other, but just one person too far out, and now hanging dangerously out of balance.
You did tell me not to reach too far out. You warned me.
I also don’t know what to do with the new information and the feelings. How much of it was true? I see the gaps now. The silences you allowed me fill with my assumptions. How much did I assume? I don’t know and you wont tell me. You and your silence. Wielded like protecting shields, but when in reality they’re weapons. Aimed at anyone who would dare come close.
It was me. I blame me.
It was heaven, I enjoyed every second of it.
It was a mistake, but one I do not regret making.
It also one I know I will never make again. It feels weird to always be this person. Every year, you meet someone, and it doesn’t quite fit.
Who is incomplete? You or them? Who is missing a piece? You or the ones you always choose?
You’re happy with what the little you’re getting most of the time, but with this one you have to be careful. Because sometimes its almost as if he resents the happiness you get from that little you can get.
I don’t know what space means. I never have. Maybe because I never had much to begin with. The concept is alien to me. Why would you ever need space? What will you do with it? Does this mean you no longer like me? Is the space more for me or for you? Is it motivated by selfish reasons or by generous ones?
You had fillers. For gist, you said. So when I gave you space, you replaced me. And when she asked for space, you let me back in. Do you see how that feels? Do you see how like a toy I would feel? Do you care enough to reassure me that this is not the case?
I have so many questions. So many. The type of questions where I want to sit across from you and look into your eyes and ask. But the problem is that your answers give birth to even more questions. And I start to wonder if that is a sign in itself. The unending questions. I also don’t know who I am writing this to, me or you.
I know how I feel. It doesn’t have to fit into your description of what love is. You make me question how I feel. Like it is wrong, or it was a lie or a mistake. It is like your every action is mocking, trying to tell me that I don’t know what I feel. But I do. All too well.
I didn’t plan to feel like this. As a matter of fact, learning more about you makes it easy for me to dismiss those feelings. Tell myself that the person I fell in love with does not exist. That the person is not you. Its like we did a lot of talking to each other and not a lot of listening, none of us remembered any of the words.
I wish it was different. I wish it was ending differently, but then I can’t think of an alternate ending that would feel better. I would rather it didn’t end at all.
But I’m not the one who has that power. You do.
But I’ll be fine.
Give me a year. Max.
