I told you I was tired. That I’m done. That I wanted out. I felt triumphant at first, finally gathering up the strength and courage to break away from your spell.
“When we love, we partly, or wholly, relinquish our conditions and checklists, for the sake of making them feel that we love them for who they are, and not for who we wish they’d be.”
A few minutes later, I started suffocating, crying, finding it difficult to breathe… I love you. I wanted to take it all back, to tell you, “I love you, I’m in love with you. I never meant anything I said.” But I did. I meant every word. I love you, but I am tired. Tired of being the one who says “I’m sorry” all the time. Tired of always, always being the one who swallows her pride just because to her, keeping the relationship going is much more important than winning any argument. Tired of being the one whose mistakes are, nine times out of ten, being pointed out, blown disproportionately, and made a big deal out of. Oh yes, I am nowhere near perfect and I never claimed to be the easiest person to be with, but truth be told, you’ve had your fair share of slips as well. I don’t mean to keep track of the wrongs we had done to each other, but it just really sucks to be the one who finds it harder to let go, to give up on us, if there was even an us to begin with. Why do I have a feeling you’ll never ever make the first move to fix whatever this is that has become of us?
“We embrace despite the fear of wounding ourselves with the thorns they out up. We take them and let them in, these people we love, fully aware of the danger that they might not choose to stay.”
All I need is a word from you. Just tell me you’re sorry. Oh to hell with it, it doesn’t even matter if you are, just talk to me. Please. Talk to me, without me having to start the conversation. Tell me you can’t live without me. Tell me it was wrong for you to watch me go, to have agreed that it was getting exhausting. Tell me you miss me. Oh God I don’t even care what you tell me, just talk to me. Even a “hi” would suffice. Every time my phone beeps, I eagerly pick it up, in hopes of a message from you, only to fall in disappointment. A word. That’s all I want, all that is necessary for me throw my arms around you as if nothing had happened. A tiny dose of reassurance, that’s all. Proof that you haven’t given up on me, on us; evidence that you have not let go.
“For when we love, we take that leap of faith, and we close our eyes shut and we wish that either the fall is not too far below, or that somehow, we grow wings.”
Just please talk to me. Please. Will you? It’s not much to ask. I love you. Don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on us. Please talk to me soon.
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