I’m tired of constantly checking upon those little grey numbers indicating when you were last active on Facebook. I’m tired of checking my messages for a text that won’t come. I’m tired of rereading past conversations just to contradict my gut feeling. It isn’t rocket science I am and will always simply be an option to you. Someone you call up when you’re bored; someone you make just enough time for.
Unassuming and chivalrous, you somehow managed to break through my cold and distant walls. I let my guard down, only to find my sanity whirling in random directions. Every minute spent without you felt like salt on the everbeating wound. Heck, in the midst of all this you weren’t even mine. I wouldn’t dare venture anywhere past the platonic zone, although I so desperately wanted to squeeze you just a little bit tighter every time we parted.
But I don’t blame you.
When was the last time I put myself as a priority? The last time I did something I loved before falling asleep, rather than peer into that familiar little blue screen, hoping for a response? The last time I could watch the city skylines without picturing us gazing out into the distance, hand in hand, complemented by a gentle, summer breeze?
Frankly speaking, I couldn’t even trace my memory back that far. Yet, I keep convincing myself that this time, things will be different. Things will change. With these positive affirmations in mind, I held on believing, while you were out there doing anything but thinking of me. You’d apologize for your delayed responses, and I, foolhardy enough, would accept it wholeheartedly.
You were intelligent. Fascinating. Oddly humorous, even. I can still recall the day our English teacher narrated your apology letter (due to tardiness?) in front of the class. Needless to say, I was blown away by your articulate use of language to express your thoughts on paper. You too, were a writer. That, in this day and age, was a beautiful thing.
I’d catch myself daydreaming about you in all of the inbetweens in life: waiting at the bus stop, browsing a store, or doing the dishes. Then I’d resort to hypercontemplation; retracing every little detail of yours in the cracks of sidewalks and the leaves of the willow trees. I wasn’t the girl who every guy noticed, but you did. And to me, that meant something.
But enough is enough. I’m tired of being an option, and it’s all on me.
Today, I’m not resorting to the usual indulgence of melancholy and insomnia. I won’t dedicate any more hours trying to prove the blatant truth wrong. I will stop telling myself that I’m not good enough; not pretty enough; not interesting enough. Today, I am going to practice self-discipline and learn from my mistakes instead of arguing against them.
Because, darling, I’m growing stronger and that is also a beautiful thing.