I hate how I still check the horoscope posts for your sign, when you probably haven’t thought of me in months. I hate how all the memes I would’ve sent to you in less than a second I can’t even bring myself to like. I hate how all the moments in my life, big or small, happy or sad, funny or morbid, are all followed by the same train of thought. I always want to tell you, but then I’m reminded that you no longer want to know these things.
You don’t want to hear about the funny thing that happened, the song I listen to on repeat because it reminds me of you. You don’t want my parents happy birthday messages or the memes about literally everything. You don’t want any of that, simply because you don’t want me.
Shouldn’t that be enough? It’s not though. Because there’s still a broken part of me that believes you’ll come back to me and love me again. Shouldn’t you breaking up with me, or us not speaking since be a clue? Shouldn’t the fact that every thought of you leads me to a nightmare and there’s not one thing about it that I can do?
It should be, but it’s not. I know that against all knowledge, all reasoning, beyond any form of logic, I still love you. I love you so much that I’d sacrifice every ounce of self worth I’ve ever had to have an opportunity to be held by you again. I know that if you did come back to me I’d have you in a heartbeat no questions asked.
And there’s nothing more dumb than that. I like to imagine a world where you come back to me but I resist, say that I have too much self respect for it and that you hurt me too much. I like to imagine these dramatic conversations, with all the adult and mature things we’d say. Where the reality could not be farther than that.
You’re not coming back to me. I’m not even on your mind. And if you did I’d not even have to think about it.
Even as I write this my brain screams at me with a hope that I’m wrong. That he sits and misses me too and wishes things were different, but that hope is false and the longer and harder I hold onto it the more painful it becomes.
It’s not that I don’t know we’re flawed and so was our relationship. If we weren’t, and there weren’t then we’d still be together. But doesn’t someone say something about finding beauty in imperfections?
One day there’ll be a day when my thoughts aren’t laced with the sadness of you and us and what we could have been. One day maybe I’ll love someone else and be able to look at photos of you without the air leaving my body. Maybe one day you’ll be just a boy I loved when I was just a girl. There’s equal parts of me that hope for that, but there’s also equal parts of me that don’t.
