First, I will put in the wastebasket every tangible thing you gave me, and maybe burn one or two of them. I will watch every piece of my heart turn to ashes. Then, I’ll turn the music up, and crawl under the sheets avoiding daylight.
Maybe I’ll go for a walk, a really long walk, with my headphones on. Avoid your street. Avoid the subway so I won’t hear the female robot voice call for your station. And if I stop by the library, I will not secretly hope to see your face again.
If I ever received a birthday wish from you on Facebook, my heart will not skip a beat. No, it won’t. Its job is to pump blood. I will miserably check my phone every single second just to notice that no text message came from you. Your name will not pop on my screen.
Maybe someday if we crossed each other in college you’ll ask me how I’m doing. I’ll say everything’s alright. I will shut down this voice in my head, this haunting little voice. I will avoid your dear blue eyes that got me going crazy. But we both know that I’m not strong enough to avoid a quick glance at your lips. How come you never really liked to kiss? Your mouth is perfect, you idiot! And I will come up with any stupid excuse to avoid smiling because you always knew how to make me smile.
Maybe I will get a text message from you, between midnight and 3 am. It’ll cut my sleep in half and the flood of tears I’ve been pushing back will come. I will not text you back. But I will check this message at least a dozen of times. I will have trouble sleeping and my dear friend called Insomnia will join me. I will remember the softness of your sheets, the safety I felt when we used to share your bed. Then, I’ll remember our first kiss and sadness will drown me. I’ll grab my MP3 to shut the voice in my head, whispering me that I never mattered to you. The playlist will show me all the songs you made me discovered and my fingers won’t choose my favourite one of them.
And maybe one night, I’ll want to get drunk. For the sober person I am, I will reconsider this option. I will not talk about you to my roommates, they had heard enough about you in the past. Because if I drink, I fear I might open my heart and no one will be able to stop the bleeding.
I will not stalk your Facebook profile, even if we stay “friends”. When I’ll hear your name somewhere, I’ll check twice before realizing the name doesn’t match the face. My empty hands will burn from your leftover fingerprints. Maybe you’ll invite me to come over and watch a hockey game. I will deny your offer, knowing you’ll drink too much again. Or maybe you won’t. Maybe you took control of yourself and managed to deal with your addiction to alcohol. If I say yes, please push me away. But I’ll put my ego aside and spend the night by your side. I will not flinch. The voice in my head will tell me to get the fuck out as fast as I still can. After the game, we will find ourselves in your bedroom, and you’ll put some music on. But not just some music: you’ll carefully choose the songs that make you think of me. And you’ll turn off the light, you always hated artificial light. And so I’ll lie down on the mattress next to you, keeping every bit of skin away from yours. My heart will not break. Then, you’ll ask how I feel – that will only happen if your mind isn’t lost in a fog of alcohol – and I’ll reply something incomprehensible. Some white noise coming from the bottom of my throat. Because words, my words, choke me.
Maybe you’ll ask me to stay the night. I won’t. This is how I will forget about you. Our relationship will just be another scar on my heart, another shipwreck to fix. But that’s just me. You aren’t the first one who breaks my heart, but you’re the one I was hoping would not. I know you’d be doing just fine without me.