Sometimes I think we’ll just get a feeling and we’ll both show up at our spot at the same time and we won’t have to say anything to each other, we’ll just know.
But then I think that I might be the only half that gets that feeling. What if you don’t have that feeling anymore?
Do you still have those dreams? Who do you tell them to? I know that she doesn’t listen — you told me that yourself. You told me that before we were even anything, so I know it’s true.
I just don’t know how to move on. I mean, I’ve moved on. But this time, last year, was when it all started. And it’s so hard to even fathom that all of it happened and ended. You moved on, and I’m here. In your old cubicle, doing your old job. In the same cubicle you used to hold me in every morning and steal kisses when no one was looking. I have your old stapler on my (your) desk.
I used to think that you would have left a sign behind. I used to look for it, and dream of what would happen when I found it. But I haven’t found it yet. And I don’t know how to move on. I don’t believe that you have moved on. I can’t believe that you have moved on from us. How could you? It was us.
I know I’m not the only person in the world to have had their heart broken. But I firmly believe that we were something different. We were us.
I saw your divorce papers. I saw them with my eyes. You moved them off the front seat so that I could get into your car. You said “I’m sorry if that makes you feel uncomfortable” and I said that it did not. Even though it did. Maybe I lied too much.
I still don’t understand how you could have been seeing her and me at the same time, when you were always with me. I still don’t understand how you could take me to dinner that one night and let me tell you all of those things about myself and let me open up to you and then kiss me and say that you loved me.
I still don’t understand how you could ask me what our wedding would be like and how I would want to decorate our house together. That was the last conversation we ever had. You kissed me goodbye and said that you would see me on Sunday. That never happened. Sometime between that Friday and Sunday, something changed.
I’m typing this on the keyboard that used to be yours. There is a spot on the space bar that’s worn down, and I reposition my hands so that I don’t touch it. We can’t be the same. I have to be different from you.
But I have your old stapler.
And I wonder if my hands will fit inside of anyone else’s.
But maybe I can’t move on because I’m sitting in your old cubicle. Doing your old job. Where everything reminds me of you.