The truth is, I’m afraid.
I’m afraid that one year from now, I’ll live my life thinking that I’ve healed, but a dream will remind me of your chin resting on my head.
What if I never forget how secure I was between your arms? What if I never forget all the things that made me feel like starting from that second, everything would be fine?
I’m afraid that one year from now, my stomach will still clench at the sight of you. We didn’t work as potential lovers, and I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t work out as friends either. At least, not on my part.
What if someday, I run into you at the supermarket, and all I’ll be able to think about is how after all of those years, I’ve been waking up disenchanted with a life unspent with you?
I’m afraid that I might never forget how hard my heart pounds when you say my name. I’ve always thought my name was nothing special, but one of the little reasons I got attached to you in the first place was how special you made it sound. Even now, I can still hear it like a favorite song.
I fear that I’ll still see you in every empty face I come across; every crowd I get surrounded by. What if I continue picturing your face every time I hear that one Taylor Swift song? What if I continue wondering if you see me in your new lover?
I’m afraid that the thought of you with someone new will still affect me in more ways than one. I get it, you’re happy. I told myself from the moment you held me in your arms that you would always matter in the things that matter most. And your happiness mattered more to me than my own, and even if it no longer includes me, even if the only way to keep you happy is to let you forget me, I will happily comply. It’s scary how it might always stay like that.
I’m scared that maybe I might never get to say, “It was good. It was good having that in my life.” I can totally admit that I still haven’t gotten fully over the things that we could’ve, might’ve, and should’ve been.
Even now, I could still make a dozen books out of all the things I wished could’ve happened. But I don’t know why I’m still a sucker for the most foolish things a hopeless romantic could crave. I don’t know if someday I will look back and appreciate this for what it was, and not sulk over what it could’ve been.
I’m afraid of lonely nights where my hand will itch, driven by the urge to try to hear your voice over the phone. I don’t know if I’ll miss you or if I’ll miss who I thought you were, but either way, I have experienced dozens of nights like this. I will usually find distractions, but what if I run out of distractions?
I’m terrified of tearful moments where I’ll seek your hand when I need something to hold.
I’m afraid that my face will still contract in disgust every time I see happiness in other people. That’s the thing about me, I’m selfish. I admit that I’m very much jealous-slash-disgusted at people being involved in relationships, but at least I’m honest about it.
Come on, world. I want to be happy too. I’m not the best person, but I’m definitely not the worst. Where’s my happiness?
I’m scared of being scared of chances to try again. Even though I know I’m too fucked up to ever be wanted, I’m still scared of everything, even just crushing on someone.
I’m afraid I’ll get too attached to someone to the point where I’m crippled when they’re gone. The next time I fall in love, I want them to be an extra limb, so that I could still walk if they leave. I don’t know, maybe I’ll eat my words. But at least I’m careful, right?
I’m afraid that love songs and sad songs might still remind me of you. I don’t know how you did it, but you manage to occupy my mind in anything I do. Sad songs will make me remember my bathroom breakdowns because of you, and happy songs will remind me of how we danced in the grass.
I’m afraid that I’ll still blame you for losing sight of my own worth. I know it’s mostly my fault why I got heartbroken in the first place, because I fucked around and got attached to you.
I’m trying to find a reason to blame you for it, but I can’t find a sensible memory of you hurting me intentionally. I was hurting myself during every conversation we had by hoping you’d finally settle.
Fuck you, I was worth it. But fuck myself even more, I was worth it.
I’m afraid that I might never forget.
And I’m frightened that maybe I don’t want to.