It’s been six months since my relationship with a certain someone ended. Still not a day goes by, hardly an hour even, that I don’t think
about her. It’s impossible not to when seemingly everything around me somehow
finds a way to remind me of her and what we had.
She’s moved
on now—I know that. She’s made sure to let me know that. What I will never
understand is how quickly she seemed to move on...almost like what we had never
even happened. So many times I’ve wanted to talk to her about it; to ask her
what I did wrong, and what she really thought of me, what I meant to her. But I
can’t. Because I know she would honestly tell me. And I’m afraid of what her
answer might be.
To quote her favorite TV show,
Grey’s Anatomy, “...as human beings, sometimes it's better to stay in the dark, because in the dark there may be fear, but there is also hope.” I don’t mean to say that I still
hope she might change her mind about me, though a small part of me certainly
does. What I do mean to say is I think I’d rather hold on to the hope that she
really did care about me like I cared about her. So I will never ask.
It’s hard to imagine her with
someone else now, and honestly, I try my best not to. But she most definitely
is. Her facebook picture is one of her and him. I didn’t mean to see it, but I
did. Inevitably, I find myself comparing myself to him—even though I know
nothing about him. I think about what it was about me she didn’t like, and what
it is he might have that I don’t. It isn’t just him that I do that with,
though. There are guys I meet at school, or random people I come into contact
with that make me think, “That’s probably the kind of guy she wants.” I look at
them and what they are; I see that what they are is what I’m not. It’s
discouraging. It’s depressing. It damages my already weakened confidence.
Today I was thinking about
something I said to her one night before she left to go home. I kissed her on
the fore head, hugged her, and said, “I’m glad I met you.” At the time I meant
it with everything I had. Now, I’m not so sure. I don’t feel like a better person
for having known her. If anything I feel damaged by it. She didn’t leave me
with much to hang on to. There were things she told me that cut deep. I can’t
believe she meant any harm by saying them, she was just being honest...that’s
how she is—brutally honest. Still, they hurt me. And now, six months later, I still lay here in bed at night wondering if what she said
is true.
She told me once that she can’t
imagine me ever being crazy about someone. That was one thing she
wanted—someone to be crazy about her, and I guess I didn’t satisfy that. As
much as it scares me, I sometimes think she’s right. Though I want it more than
anything, it’s hard to imagine me finding someone that could make me feel that
way. Just the idea of me loving someone like that is as foreign as France .
I’m not sure I even know how.
They say to love someone, you must
first love yourself. I’d say for the most part I like myself, but to say
I love myself, especially now, after she revealed all these things she
didn’t love for me to dwell on, is a stretch. I try to fight it, but all too
often I find myself thinking that I am unlovable. I know I have
qualities that a girl might like, but I also think the ones I lack are some of
the most important. And for a girl that I could fall crazy in love with to come
along and see past my faults, to want to hang around long enough to melt
through my cold exterior and find those good qualities seems like a dream that
will forever stay a dream.
I don’t know if the love I dream
about having one day even exists. At this point, all I can do is hope for the
best.
