Call me pathetic. Call me heartsick, a masochist, ridiculous for hanging on to something that isn’t there. Roll your eyes and say you don’t get it. Judge me for admitting that I still sit up at night hoping that maybe you’re awake and thinking about me too.
Seriously. Go ahead.
Say whatever you need to say. Get it out. Say I should be over it by now. Say I’m doing this to myself. Say that this is just a waste of energy. Say whatever comes to mind about the fact that I’m openly and freely admitting that sometimes around a fire pit I wish you were the one telling stories. That sometimes when I hear your name, something in my heart still stings.
I miss you. And I’m done feeling bad about it.
I think there’s this belief that once you move on, once you heal from being hurt, that you’re never supposed to ache about someone ever again. That one day *POOF* you’re just over it and you’ll never feel sad again. That there is an expiration date for loneliness, for nostalgia, for that inexplicable feeling of wishing you could tell someone good news. And after that poof, after that expiration date, you’ll never feel those feelings again. They’ll be gone and you’ll be fine — never to feel sad again.
But that’s bullshit.
Complete and utter bullshit.
When you love someone, and love them deeply, they’re connected to you. They become your home and your rock and your center. So when they’re gone, it’s natural to miss them. It’s natural to become homesick for places, and for people. It’s not good it’s not bad it just is.
And sometimes I can’t help it; I’m homesick for you.
Not all the time. No, I’m not pining for you every minute of every day. I don’t obsess, don’t dwell, don’t sick twiddling my thumbs in a constant state of lonely misery.
But sometimes, I miss you. Something wonderful or exciting happens and I want to run up to you and show you. Something scary happens and I want to hear your voice reassuring me that it’s going to be okay. Something new is thrust my way and I want to talk it out with you and hear what you would do.
Sometimes, I just miss you.
And you know what? I’m done trying to hide it.
I’m done thinking that just because I get sad or miss someone or wish things weren’t the way that they are that that makes me weak or pathetic. I’m done swallowing down the things that burden me in the interest of saving face.
I’m done pretending like I don’t miss you, just because somewhere along the line, someone decided I wasn’t supposed to.
You were a part of my life. You were someone that was important to me, someone I cared for. You were someone worth missing.
I refuse to believe that shoving memories under the bed, pretending that nostalgic moments aren’t in the back of my mind, that pretending I do not miss you is healthier than simply admitting the truth.
I miss you, and I’m not sorry.
I loved you, and I’m not sorry.
And if that makes me pathetic, then so be it.