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
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.