I shouldn’t miss you after all of the unanswered texts, the canceled plans, the I-miss-yous that meant nothing. I shouldn’t miss the mornings I spent waiting for you to contact me, the nights I spent close to tears because you failed to give me what I needed.
I shouldn’t miss the way you made me feel — because the happiness never lasted. The excitement always turned to disappointment.
But during the rare times when you weren’t snapping my heart in half, when things were actually good between us, when you kissed my lips or I heard your laugh — I was happy. Wholeheartedly, unabashedly happy in a way that I haven’t been before or since then.
I miss getting excited over the small things. When you locked eyes with me from across the room. When you winked at me, smirked at me, smiled at me. When you texted me first. When you told me that I looked pretty or you liked my new hair. When you did something so small, so insignificant, that made me feel like the happiest person in the world.
I miss the adrenaline that coursed through my veins every time we were in the same room together. Every time you hugged me hello. Every time you sat close enough that our limbs were touching. Every time you did something stupid, like high-fived me or shoved me or tickled me. Every time you rested your skin against my skin, I felt euphoric.
I even miss the nervous nights where I rewrote a text ten times because I wanted it to be perfect. I miss having someone in my life that I cared so much about, that I was dying to impress, that I was dying to date. I miss the shaky way I would pick up the phone to check for your message, the smile that would paint my face whenever I read your response.
I miss the sexual tension. The unanswered questions. Not knowing whether the night was going to end with a kiss or something more. I miss the unexpected, the surprises, the spontaneity.
I miss the way you made me feel, because no one else has been able to replicate that feeling. I text them, but don’t care if there are spelling errors, don’t care if I say something stupid. I go out with them, but don’t get butterflies when they touch my thigh or kiss my cheek. I like them, but I’m not crazy about them.
They don’t put me on edge the same way that you did. They don’t keep me guessing. They don’t make me wonder what is going to happen next. They don’t keep the mystery alive instead of spelling things out for me.
And that should be a good thing. That should be something I’m happy about. Something I’m thrilled about.
But… I still miss you.
I know it’s dangerous. Destructive. Disgusting. But I miss how alive you made me feel. And I hate how I don’t feel that way with anybody else.