I was never his girlfriend. He already had one of those, I found out later. So we never kissed. We spent countless hours talking into the point where night turns into morning, but we never spent the night together. We discussed the possibility of us – and what our future together might hold – too many times to count.
But he was never mine.
When it ended – abruptly and on his terms, of course – I didn’t know why it hurt so much. He wasn’t really an ex; we’d never so much as held hands. He wasn’t just a friend.
He was an almost lover. And almost lovers can hurt more than real ones.
At least with previous boyfriends, I could point to the past. Flaws. Fights. Memories, both good and bad. I had something concrete to hold onto. I had photos, old DVDs they’d lent me, “I love you” texts saved on my phone. I could justify my tears.
But with my almost lover, I had only the future. I had potential. Ideas. Dreams. Plans.
I had hope.
I was left with my arms open – and empty.
The tears came, though it was hard to explain them to friends who couldn’t see how close I’d come to having something special. Or that in my mind, he’d already become someone special. But without a kiss, without a hint of a real relationship to fall back on, I felt didn’t have anything worth explaining or mourning.
Which is the saddest part of it all.