When I met you and you told me that alcohol was a big part of your life, I shrugged it off. “So he’s a bartender. Big deal.” But then I started to notice that alcohol was involved every time we hung out. I realized that you hadn’t actually been sober around me for more than a few hours at a time and when I mentioned this to you, you laughed it off with the line, “I’m a bartender, babe. What do you expect?” So I tried to deal with alcohol being the uninvited guest to all of our dates.
I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t watch you get hammered six nights a week. I couldn’t compete with alcohol; she’d be a better time for you than I ever would. I realized that and did the only logical thing I could think to do: I ran. I told you that our lifestyles weren’t compatible, so we should end things now. I was scared. Afraid that I’d lose you to her. I’d been down that road before and promised myself that I’d never go through that hell again. So I said goodbye and tried my best to forget about you.
It didn’t work.
Months later, you [drunkenly] sent a text to tell me that you missed me. Stupidly, I responded. Because truth be told, I missed you too. So we reconnected. We shared laughter and kisses and apologies that night. I had a bit of hope then, that maybe things would be different this time. They weren’t. Two days later and it was like I ceased to exist in your life at all. I hate admitting it, but I was crushed. I thought maybe I could pull you away from her; maybe I could be the only one in your life.
You told me that she’d been there for you more than I ever had and that she made your life so much more interesting. It was then I realized that maybe I should stop trying. I didn’t deserve to be the “other woman” any longer, so I let her have you. Right now I’m sure you two are happy together. But one day, the party will stop. And that’s when you’ll realize that it’s just you and your empty bottle.