We broke up because we brought out the worst in each other. You were my best friend, and we found salvation from sharing our fucked up lives. You were my first, and you just got me like no one else ever will. We fought, and did things to get back at both our families. You came from an abusive home, while my folks had frequent fighting matches. Couldn’t they see what they were doing to us?
I think we got together because we needed a distraction. And suddenly, my best friend was reduced to a distraction. I tried convincing myself that we’d be a younger version of Harry and Sally. I tried convincing myself that it wasn’t toxic, that I let you go further and further with me because I was genuinely in love with my best friend. I tried convincing myself that our daily fights just brought us closer. I tried convincing myself that us yelling at each other because we weren’t even close to being heard by those we actually loved was okay. I mistook fucked up for passion. We fought. We broke up. We fought again. We were scared that breaking up for good would mean losing a best friend, never realizing that we stopped being friends the moment we first kissed.
Then somewhere along the line, my family and I fixed the cracks in my house. We rebuilt our home from the ground up, and my family began to slowly but surely heal. That’s also when your family officially broke up. There was no healing for your family. All you would get were sympathetic glances and awkward hugs. I didn’t understand you anymore, and frankly, you were only a reminder of a past I wanted to forget. I wanted to be happy, and your problems dragged me down. I hated myself for it, but I convinced myself that you were better off without me. You probably were, but that had nothing to do with us breaking up. We broke up because I was able to see our relationship for what it was: toxic. We broke up because I didn’t want to be there for you.
We broke up because underneath it all, you were nice guy. We were young, and yet you saw a white picket fence future with me. I could feel you falling for me. Hard. You gifted me a Harry Potter themed portrait for my birthday. You learned to play my favorite song on the guitar. Heck, you even learned to play the guitar for me. You were who I turned to every time I felt fat or stupid. You’d hold me until every trace of self doubt left me, bundling me up in a warm quilt of love.
Love. That’s where it all went wrong. You told me loved me, and all I did was pull away and hold myself. Suddenly, I realized just how much you had fallen for me. I became the bitch who led you on, a role I was extremely familiar with. I did a really good job of convincing myself that you just threw recycled lines at me, maybe because that was exactly what I was doing. We broke up because suddenly, I felt the pressure of being the person you’d fallen in love with. I felt suffocated by the need to love you back. So I smiled and decided to do what I do best: lead you on. I smiled that awkward smile you adore and told you I loved you back, hoping to convince myself in the process. You fell for it, and I got to use that quilt for a little longer.
I guess my pretence brought out the real you, though. Or maybe the security of “love” forced you to see the real me: a girl who really wasn’t as smart she pretended to be, not as confident as she’d like to be, and not as pretty as your ex. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, she had male friends fawning over her all the time. You became possessive. Suddenly, I wasn’t good enough for you, but you didn’t want anyone else to have me either. I had to text you my whereabouts every time I moved. I had to stop seeing my male friends. You wanted to control my every move, and I somehow convinced myself that you knew what was best for me. Here’s the thing though: you didn’t. You never did. You knew what was best for the person you loved and who loved you back. You had no idea what was best for the deeply flawed, insecure girl standing in front of you. You had no idea about the girl who flirted with her male friends for fun, convincing herself that it was all “innocent.” And this girl wasn’t someone you wanted to wrap up with love. This girl was just someone you wanted to leave your mark on. Somehow. Anyhow.
We broke up because I’m an idiot. I was stupid, the official descriptive phrase for happy. And I hate being stupid. We broke up because I looked for perfection while being a hopelessly flawed human being myself. We broke up because you started making plans, thinking we would get that far. It scared me. We broke up because I’m not a romantic. Sure I listen to Taylor Swift and plan out my wedding playlist, but really, I’m just a half-wit who pretends to know what she’s talking about. I’m a lunatic looking for scraps of what I think I want. We broke up, quite simply, because it wasn’t you. It was me. I decided to end things before you realized that I wasn’t worth knowing, and for that, I am sorry.