So you wouldn't believe this. There she
is, liking me again. I know what you're thinking
. Didn't I give up
on her? Completely
. Didn't I move past, collecting the broken shards of my heart from the slippery
ground where she once stood? Most of them. Didn't I somehow drive myself to exist without this, my inamorata
? Who does she think she is?
She acts as if every word she says to me doesn't have the impact of a thousand kisses or a million stabs or a hundred slaps. How can she not realize that she has this effect on me? Is it simply willful ignorance? Has she completely convinced herself that she has nothing to do with me, the sordid state my emotions are in, or any of this? Does some small part of her know that I still cry myself to sleep each night, with each tear that stains my cheeks a broken promise?
If she had to gaze upon my face, shimmering with tears, each night- would it change the way she thinks? Would it change the way she acts?
Is there some small part of her- something she forces down whenever it returns to her- that tugs at her? Pulling at her skirt like an eager child in a candy store, sure it knows what's best? Some small force that tugs at her- her heart- and tells her the choices she's making are the wrong ones? That she's giving up something, someone, who's equal she'll *never* find?
When all I can do is cough out these words of disparaged hope when talking to her; when every phone call ends with a sigh that tries my soul; when every time you hear her name, you cringe and you don't know why; when all these things ring true, and in the mirror each day, you wonder how one could become so broken because of the actions, words, letters, embraces, the touches of one girl.
And she's moved on. She doesn't think about you like you think about her. She has someone else. She has no one else. It doesn't matter, because it's not you. You weren't good enough. You weren't her type. You weren't what she was looking for. You didn't like the same music. You didn't like the same artists. You didn't have the same interests. You didn't make her laugh, enough. You made her cry one too many times. You didn't know the right words to say, when the right words were none at all. You didn't know where to put your hands. You didn't know how to describe to her the glimmer in her eye- the tugging at your *own* heart you felt every time you saw her. You didn't make her feel the way she feels now. You were flawed, fundamentally. You were designed to be broken, broken hearted. You were designed for this heartache. And she knew that.
So now I'm not too sure- I don't think she's liking me again. Not "like that", anyway. Then, maybe this- this possibility: She never *stopped* liking me "like that". Through her mind's own challenges to this logic, and her other boyfriends, and the bitter phone calls, and the hard-to-swallow cups of tea while looking at my picture- she still felt that tugging, and this time- this one time- the tugging was pulling her in the right direction. No longer was the tugging a child pulling his mother's skirt to look at the candy on the shelves- instead, it was to escape from this place, now set aflame, the child fulfilling a grander duty than could be known at the time.
They never listen to that tugging. No matter how hard it pulls, how deep they feel it, how right they *know* it is, they do everything possible to convince themselves that they "know better". They lead with their heart, an easily manipulated beast that doesn't know what it wants, flying on a whim... They need to lead with their souls; their hearts will listen to their souls, and they'll realize where true happiness lies. Not in the checkout lane, but in the exit. Not in the candy, but in the escape. And they wonder why they hurt. They wonder why there's pain. They convince themselves they're "better off". They convince themselves this is the "right thing". That's okay. Because when they realize that the right thing is in the opposite direction, will *you* still be standing there to greet them? I won't. I can't. And it's their loss.
It's your loss.