It had been a long two and a half weeks before my anxieties reminded me that I would be seeing you again soon. I had been okay. Sometimes I’d have to fight the thoughts and memories that tugged at my brain, but like you said the last time we were ‘on again’, it was really hard to sometimes. The worst part was that the instability I had grown accustomed to during those months kept me tethered to the possibility that you’d come back. I had moved past wanting you to, but maybe another apology would affirm that you did care for me, even if it was only for weeks at a time. The reeling wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been the last time. Those three weeks my friends would ask me if something was wrong, and I would have to manage a shrug before excusing myself and finding a place to be alone. You never apologized for it, but none of the other things you did made me hurt like that.

 

The diminished intensity gave me hope that seeing you wouldn’t make me spiral all over again. I didn’t, at least not the first time: when I barely recognized you looking through the yellow wood door as you were walking by. The next time I saw you, I noticed your hair was longer and had started to creep onto your face. Each time I see something that made you different from who you were when you were with me, I wonder if you still think about me. It’s still weird to think the next time we speak will probably also be the last time I see you. I won’t lie and say that it wasn’t bad some days, because it was, but I also had to see her. I had to see her like I hadn’t seen her before, and that was because of you. I was angry at you for taking crowded dinner tables away from me, and angry at her because she was a constant reminder of what you had forgotten. It’s funny how the feeling wasn’t worse than the inadequacy and desperation I felt in the days and weeks after you decided you weren’t sure of me anymore. I’m sorry for not realizing “right now” meant only when it was easy for you. Now, everytime you flick away your furtive glances when I meet your gaze, I’m reminded of something only we knew.

 

I bet you think she’s the worst thing you did to me, but it’ll always be the fleeting feeling you mistook for love.  

 

SN