I often think about the way we’d meet again — if we were to run into each other in the big city we share or if one day you reach out like I’d always hoped you would.
I wake up in the morning to an email from you. Seeing your name again on the screen of my phone brings back a certain level of comfort and a jump in my heart. Its subject is blank, because you were never good with final words. Its body is full with every thought from the past three months and the things you should’ve said but didn’t.
I imagine you sitting in your apartment at 4 am, in the computer chair I picked out for you. You probably began writing this email two weeks ago, but only finished one sentence. You’ve tried and failed over and over again until today, until you remembered all the times when I was there with you — to help you finish your words.
So, you write.
You tell me it’s been hard and you’ve missed me terribly. You say you’ve been reading my articles and admit they’ve made you uncomfortable. You seem angry with me, but more so, you sound sad without me.
You’ve done all you could to distract yourself. You’ve played gig after gig, written new music, and met new people; yet you feel that something is missing. That something is me.
You’re sorry our breakup happened the way it did. You’re sorry you hurt me terribly and caused all the pain that has haunted me on a daily basis, even until this second.
You tell me you still love me. You say you always have.
You realize your expectations were too high. You know that no one is perfect. You understand that I can’t change myself for you and that I am who I am. I may be the wallflower at the party but I’m the girl who will love you unconditionally for the rest of our lives.
You admit that you need me — all of me — every quiet, awkward, annoying, clingy, over-emotional part of me.
You ask for my forgiveness and you ask to see me. You understand if I need more time or if I don’t want to hear from you again. But I do.
And once we meet again, we start over. Like our first date, we don’t know how to greet each other, whether to hug, touch cheeks, or awkwardly shake hands. You repeat everything you wrote in the email, with your head down low, in slow, scattered words.
My heart is racing being in the same room with you again, and my mind is longing to freeze time, so this moment could last forever.
But we begin to smile and laugh. We catch up on life. I tell you about all of the different countries I’ve visited and you tell me how much your career has soared since we broke up.
After a long silence and fidgeting around on both sides, you ask for a second chance. In my head, I take it in a heartbeat but in this moment, I think about it. I play hard to get, something I’ve never had to do with you before.
In the end, I give you the chance you asked for. Things turned out the way I always dreamed they would, and you and I are in love as ever before.
This part was the hardest for me to write, because I haven’t wanted to think about the reality of seeing or hearing from you again.
We would only once again cross paths by coincidence. Maybe we’d run into each other on the street or maybe we’d happen to be at the same concert. Because you wouldn’t want to see me again, you’ve made that clear from the beginning of the end.
We’d lock eyes for just a moment until everything in me once again starts to fall apart. The girl that once opened her heart out to you suddenly feels naked in front of you. Not in the comfortable way I used to feel, but in a shameful, insecure, almost dangerous way.
Your first thought is to dodge me, because I’m the last person you wanted to see. You’ve read everything I’ve written about you and you’ve cringed at the way I tried to win you back.
You probably think I should’ve stayed in Paris, away from you. You probably feel sorry for me, because I’ll never get over you. But you’ve gotten over me.
In reality, you come over and say “hello.” You ask me how I’m doing and you tell me that I look great. This reminds me that you’re a good person and you’ve always been. This conversation between us only makes me miss you more, even when you are standing right there in front of me.
The dreadful reunion ends shortly and abruptly, because I don’t know what to say and you’ve given up trying a long time ago.
The hatred I felt for you and the sorrow in myself has consumed so much of me, to cloud my thoughts and judgements of you and the situation.
I know you never meant to hurt me, and it was up to me to stay strong after the storm. When I didn’t, that was my own fault and not yours.
These thoughts of us meeting again — expectation versus reality — helps me see clearly. My heart wants you. It always has and maybe it always will. I dream about us reuniting the way a fairy tale would end, just to make myself feel okay, like a quick hit of a fatal drug. But my mind knows better. My mind knows the truth and my mind knows what’s good for me.
It knows we’re not meant to be together, and that maybe I wasn’t open to you as much as you wanted me to be, for a reason.
Maybe my heart is saving itself, to open up more, for someone else.
While I pray to God and wish upon the stars that that person is you, the expectation is only but a dream and the reality is that it isn’t you nor will it ever be — and I’m still taking the time, day by day, to accept that.