It’s so easy to forget all the bad times, the hurt and the tears when you love someone. Maybe it’s a survival instinct. Maybe we’re wired to focus on all the good stuff. To fixate on the laughter, the hugs, the magical nights, the intimate moments, the sheer comfort. I don’t know.
All I know is that I miss you. It’s an ever present ache, almost like I can feel that a part of me is missing. What’s worse is that I know it’s my choice. I’m the one who walked away.
I’m the one who decided that I’d had enough, that I deserved better, that I deserved to feel like you wanted me as much as I wanted you. That you needed me as much, that you loved almost as much.
I’m the one who decided I couldn’t deal with zero effort, random radio silences and the inevitable insecurity that clung to our relationship like a bad smell. I’m the one who wanted more from you than I’d secretly always known you were capable of giving me.
Gone are the long nights of wondering and insecurity. The nights of trying to figure out why I wasn’t enough, of vowing to be better, of forgiving you for inflicting wounds I didn’t dare bring up.
But you’re gone with them and it’s harder than I thought it would be.
I know I’m better off without you, that I’m happier in so many ways, but that doesn’t make me miss you any less and it doesn’t dull the hurt at all.
I’ll admit that I’d forgive you just as easily as before, if you apologized, swore you’d changed. That you’d be better, that things would be different.
Sometimes I wish we could start over. That we could erase the hurt, that we could work out. That you’d been different, that I’d been different. That we had a future…that this didn’t apply to several people.
I love myself more than I love you now and I know that I shouldn’t, but I still miss you.