There’s this thing we do when something ends: we focus on all the good parts.
The moments of affection, of feeling safe, of having fun, like soaring on bikes along the coast, a white dress fluttering in the sunset wind, a shirt clinging to a muscular body, both smiling. We remember how easy it all felt. We hold onto these moments as the reason we should remain hopeful, to think they’ll come back around, realize their mistakes.
What we forget is every time we felt disappointed, questioned ourselves, questioned them. Like why at 11pm, is he getting out of bed to clean the dishes, insinuating it’s time for you to leave. And saying your desire to have him lay on top of you for one more minute of intimacy is weird. And never inviting you places or to do things with him or friends. And never solidifying plans to do one of a dozen things you’ve suggested, like batting cages or going dancing.
We forget these things.
Because we want to believe the emotional connection we felt was as special to them as it was to us.