I thought the late night talks actually meant something. That you stayed up past midnight and woke up with baggy eyes for the same reason I did, because you couldn’t unglue the phone from your hand. Because you’d rather be trading texts with me than stuck in the most glorious dream. Because you didn’t want anything, even sleep, to separate us.
I thought all of my effort actually meant something. That you appreciated how I endlessly endeavored to make you happy. How I’d go out of my comfort zone, face my anxiety head on, in order to give you what you wanted. I thought you were hesitant, but willing to return all of the favors I’d made. That it was only a matter of time until you pushed aside your fear of commitment and accepted all I had to offer you.
I thought the flirting actually meant something. That I was special. That I was going to become your girlfriend. I thought that you were zoning in on me, slowly becoming blind to all the other women that wanted you. I thought that you had made your choice and that your choice was me.
I thought that meeting your parents and getting close with your friends actually meant something. That we were taking steps toward seriousness. That you introduced me, because you wanted to turn me into a permanent part of your life. I told everyone about you, because you told everyone about me — and now they view me as some stupid girl that doesn’t know the difference between love and sex.
I thought the sex actually meant something. That it was more than two naked bodies connecting. That our souls connected, our spirits, our hearts. I mistook the lust in your eyes for love. And I took your compliments at face value, oblivious to the fact that they were an essential tool to manipulate me into doing what you wanted.
I thought the cuddling actually meant something. You didn’t sleep with me and then expect me to scamper away. You pulled me closer and nestled into my hair. You whispered compliments into my ear as we fell asleep, arm in arm. Who does that without developing feelings? I still can’t wrap my brain around the concept.
That’s why I really thought I actually meant something to you. That I was more than a hookup, that I was more than an ego boost. I assumed that you felt the same feelings that I did, because how could such strong emotions be one-sided? How could true, unblemished love be unrequited? How could you fucking do that to a person?
I thought everything we had — everything I thought we had — meant something to you. But I guess not.