There was a moment when he was breaking it off with me, where I noticed his teeth looked like the cigarettes that he smoked and his frame seem bunched up and haphazard in his sweater, like he was made of a laundry pile. Even still, I couldn’t help but feel like a little girl.
“You’re too clingy.”
“You’re too high maintenance.”
“There’s just something missing.”
Half of me wanted to curl up inside his arms and the other half of me wanted to throw up.
The next morning, after a night of drinking, I did. I lurched over the toilet and let it out. I puked, and cried, and sniffled, and sweat out all the alcohol. I purged until my heart was content, and then a little more for good measure. Afterward, I focused on my job. I let myself get warm with the hugs from my coworkers. I stepped outside a few times to drop a few tears on the sidewalk. When I got home I forced myself to socialize with the neighbors downstairs.
I let myself feel better. I let myself feel everything, I let go.
I came to the conclusion that the hurt is better than wishing someone into feeling something for you that they don’t. It’s better than to feel anxious over someone that doesn’t want you. In fact, being without him is much better than what it meant to be with him.
My primary feeling is that I will ride off into my own sunset, and I hope the future is kind enough to me so that you can stay where I left you.