Do not tell her, “It was always you,” because it was not always her.
For years, it was me, and do not pretend it wasn’t. Do not deny that you loved me, that I was your world and you mine.
For years, you held me at night. Your fingers laced through mine; your arms wrapped around my waist; your legs tangled up in mine.
For years your lips knew only mine. They whispered, “Baby,” in my ear. They promised forever and trust and security and safety. They daydreamed marriage and babies.
For years we talked every day. We laughed and cried and felt everything in the world, and we felt it together. We said, “I love you,” every night before falling asleep, whether it was in the same bed or cities apart.
I held you as you cried, telling me about her and your parents and your doubts and insecurities. You held me as I cried telling you about my past, showing you my writing, talking about my brother.
We held each other, smiling, talking about our dreams and the future. We danced at weddings and celebrated at parties and had fun doing everything and nothing together.
I took you into my family, and I came into yours, finding people I loved as my own.
So while you move backward without leaving any time to respect our years, remember:
It was not always her.