I Can’t Wait For The Day I Care As Little About You As You Cared About Me


I remember how tender you were with me, how gentle. You were always so busy, but you almost always texted me back. We worked together to build inside jokes and mutual laughs. You told me how important our snapchat streak was to you, implying that I was important to you. You talked about how much we would hang out, and how awesome it would be.

I pulled off a chunk of my life and gave it to you, but maybe you never noticed? I slowly started to realize that you made me happy. Talking to you made me happy, sending tiny jokes to each other made me happy, thinking about you made me happy. So I finally let myself be happy — let myself be happy with the idea of you.

And then one night you came back to my place, worming your way through my heart and then my pants. You whispered honey about how beautiful I was, about how clever I was, about how special I was to you. When we woke up the next morning you promised to text me (you didn’t), that you would text me soon (you didn’t), and that our time together was special to you (it wasn’t).

I had once dreamed that more than once I might wake up next to you, but instead I began waking up next to an empty phone. I had once dreamed that I meant something to you, but apparently I was just flimsy trash. I had once dreamed that you would hold my hand, but apparently you only wanted to hold my ass.

And I moved on. I bucked up. I kept going to class, going to work, hanging out with friends. I didn’t let myself cry over you. I did okay.

But I’m still carrying you.

I’m still carrying every inside joke, every playful tease, every laugh I exhaled.

I’m still carrying all your texts, snapchats, and promises of care.

I’m still carrying the incredible heaviness that comes from unrequited affection. I fell for you. I never wanted to — at times I actively fought it — but I did. And at the exact moment I surrendered myself to you, you cast me away — used and unneeded.

I don’t think about you all the time, anymore. But when I do, it still stings. Like a tiny wound someone obtains, but then forgets about, almost always out of sight. But every once in a while, we bump that bruise against something that feel intense pain. Like when I see my friends in happy, easy relationships. Or when I see your tweets about someone newer — somewhere better — than me.

And every day, the bruise gets better — get smaller. And I cannot wait until the day that I care as little about you as you cared about me. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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