It’s been 1232 days since I saw you.
I don’t remember what you were wearing, or if you said the last thing. Maybe I did. It’s blurring together into a nostalgic pang that pulses through my heart. A last time neither of us realized would be “a last time.”
Our break up was never clear-cut, which I think might be the hardest kind. There wasn’t a huge mistake. Neither of us exploded in anger or frustration. It just fell apart, slowly. And we never got the satisfaction of closure.
I hate to say it, but love wasn’t enough to keep us together.
I heard you moved on with a pretty girl in our hometown. My best friend ran into you with her, texted me the news, and everything I secretly hoped for broke in half.
We really were done. We are done.
Still, I wonder, do you ever think of me? Is this heartache something I feel alone? Are there moments when you reach for her and my name forms in your mouth instead?
I loved you so purely, it was terrifying. I woke up wanting to hug you, to to have your skin against mine. I never knew it was possible to want someone so wholly. You were my favorite part of the day, every damn day.
But you’re not mine to love now.
It’s taken 1232 days to be able to say that out loud without crying. It’s taken 1232 days to look myself in the mirror and admit, “We aren’t going to get back together.”
It’s 1232 days to accept you love someone who isn’t me.
And that’s okay. I just want you to be happy. 1232 days later, I owe you that much.