One Day I Will Write About You And It Won’t Hurt

The last time I write about you will be happy and nostalgic.

I’ll wish you the best and I’ll be content with the fact that we’re over. I’ll congratulate you on your new found love and tell you how much you’d get along with mine. I’ll joke about a double date as I smile fondly and think about our first time and how we were only kids. We had no idea what we were getting into, no clue how it would affect our lives, or at least mine.

I’ll say remember when and we’ll shake our heads in disbelief when we talk about that crazy girl you thought you loved shortly after me. I won’t mention how this wounded person called me to find out more about our relationship and how we grabbed drinks and talked about your good traits and bad, but mostly bad. I won’t think about how she made me hate you but how your presence still managed to intoxicate me – dulled my senses and erased harsh emotion – feelings I desperately held on to, if only to protect myself.

The last time I write I won’t remember how rejected I felt when she called me up and told me that I was a mistake, that you really did love her and took her to meet your family on Christmas while I waited for your call. I won’t remember that you never reached out to explain yourself, how you disappeared and left me with nothing but questions and dead air. The last time I write I’ll feel empowered and strong, not pathetically alone.

The last time I write it’ll be for myself and I won’t wonder what you’ll think when you see these words.

I’ll paint you in a warm and mystifying light, make you out to be my first love. The right man, wrong time. You weren’t ready for what we had and it scared you. I’ll pretend we broke up the first time, eight months in, and it was heartbreaking but in that way all young love is. Sad, yet fleeting. I won’t write about the next five years and how you pulled me back in and pushed me away but not entirely. I won’t write about the yo-yo relationship, up, down, down and down again – hating myself as I watched for signs of a miracle.

I’ll write about the time we found kittens and you came home on a Sunday afternoon to find us sunning on the balcony. You called us your family and I bathed in the warmth of that moment – praying it would never end. I’ll write about the time you took me to your old soccer field and I felt like I had known you my whole life. I’ll write about the time we rented a car and drove around the lake until the skyline faded and it was only our hands and the trees and the sand. We’ll reminisce and wonder why we never made it back and I won’t think about the fact that you did, but with her.

Someday I won’t feel the need to rid my mind of these stories, as if putting them on a page is the only way to cleanse myself of you.

The next time, it won’t hurt. The next time, I’ll forget. The next time, some day, writing about you won’t feel like this.