Up until two weeks ago, you were my emergency contact. Up until three weeks ago, I was yours. I thought I knew everything about you. But you were holding out on me. You knew something I didn’t: We were only meant to be some fun. Apparently, thirty months is just some fun. I thought you and I were endgame. You knew we weren’t. But it’s fine. I am fine. I’m moving on and I’m happy to. But I’m only human; I can only take so much.
We started sharing locations after the first six or seven months. We’re still sharing locations. I don’t know why I haven’t turned mine off but you haven’t either and maybe part of me is hoping that there’s a reason for that. Part of me is hoping that you didn’t just forget. Part of me will always be hoping for you.
Nevertheless, we are still sharing locations. It’s a Friday night and you’re a considerably attractive, popular, single, guy. So why did I stop breathing when I saw you enter The Black Dog? Why did it pierce new holes in my heart to know that you’re going out again? It’s been two weeks. That’s plenty of time for a person to start going out again so I don’t know why this was such a shock. I guess this is confirmation that you just forgot to turn off your location.
But I just don’t understand how you don’t miss me. You can go to bars and mingle with girls and not think about us? I guarantee you that at ‘The Black Dog’ no girl will know The Starting Line. There was only one bar in town that would play that band, it was our bar and our band. No new girl will understand you; at least not the way that I do.
The Black Dog has been open for the last three months but we both agreed that it was a stupid name and the bar was for early twenties looking for one-night stands. We never went together. Is that why you choose to go there? To make memories somewhere untainted by us?
Maybe I’m just jealous. Jealous that I’m walking around heartbroken, unable to do anything for myself, I may never be the same- I may never be able to be with someone the way I was with you, and you… you are going out to The Black Dog. It’s not fair. Not fair that I am plagued by the memories of our dates, our fights, our moments.
I just don’t understand how you could say those things to me, be that person for me, and then leave. I thought that we had something, that we were something. And I just don’t understand how you think you won’t miss me when you bring her home. How do you think you won’t remember my rain-soaked body, shaking beneath yours? I mean did you hate me the whole time? Was it a joke? Was it hazing for a fraternity?
What am I saying, this is not who I am. This spiraling mess is someone I left in the past. She’s not me. But… it was you who helped me get rid of her. You who talked me down so many times. Without you do I go back to being her? Is it possible to keep all the progress we made together? Or do old habits die screaming and all that?
It’s been six weeks. Six weeks since we broke up. Since you moved out. Since my world imploded. Imploded not exploded because I didn’t let it affect anything else. I didn’t break down and cause a scene. Yes, I didn’t eat for two days but I never missed a day of work. Never missed an hour of sleep. Never cried to my friends. I told them, one by one. But my life didn’t explode. I did what I always do and I pulled myself together and moved on. I am okay. I swear on my mother’s life, I am okay without you. But it’s been six weeks and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss you. I guess it’s not you that I miss, but us. I miss having someone to talk to, to be with.
I still don’t understand. My most recent theory is that it was all an esoteric joke. Only for you and your best friend to understand. (Your best friend being Rick not me) I try not to think about it too much. I try not to think about anything too much. I find myself thinking about selling the apartment. Thinking about setting fire to it all. But I won’t. I refuse to let anyone know just how much this has affected me. Especially you. I’m at a point where all I want is for you to hurt the way I did. I don’t hate you, I never could. But I want you to regret it. I want you to want me back. I’d say no. I have too much pride to take you back, but I want you to ask. I want you to miss me when you go out to The Black Dog (because I know you go every other weekend, it’s your new go-to, not that it’s any of my business). I just hope you miss me. And if they ever play The Starting Line I hope no one knows the song because they’re all too young and I hope you leave the bar tail between your legs, knowing that no one will ever be who I was to you. I hope you never replace me. Get married and have kids but never love as fully as you loved me.
I’ve always been a bit jealous, always wondered if you were living a double life of sorts. Some nights in the beginning after you would text me goodnight I’d stay up for hours creating stories about you and all the other girls you were talking to. But as time went on you somehow convinced me that there were no other girls. That it was just you and me, just us. So those story filled nights turned into nights together. But in the back of my mind I held on to those stories. Now on most nights I think about them, I hold onto them like a child holds onto their stuffed animal. I keep them like a promise between sisters. I let them lull me to sleep each night the way they would when we first started talking. I guess old habits really do die screaming.
