What is the worst part of a break up?
Some say it's having to learn how to do things without them.
Some say it's having to start over completely because everything reminds you too much of them.
You know what I say?
I say it's the memories.
The memories of that flowing, feathery black hair that always reached his broad shoulders, that always framed his face like a fucking painting from the Renaissance. The memories of his smooth, tan, tattooed skin wrestling against mine as we made love, the way it was covered in a sheen of sweat when he was trying his hardest to make every move mind blowing. The memories of those molten fudge colored eyes, so deep and dark and mysterious, you'd get lost in them if you didn't have a map. The memories of how often we used to laugh together, about everything or about nothing. The memories of how we were best friends, lovers, band mates. The closest thing I ever had to family.
Break ups happen all the time. Why? Who knows. Maybe it's because someone just loses feelings. Maybe it's because there's someone else. In my situation, it was both.
He realized that he wasn't gay after all. He found his trophy wife and left me. He left me broken apart, picking up the pieces of a shattered home. I lost it. I lost myself. I locked myself away, destroying everything I came across that reminded me of him.
Coincidentally, one of those things was myself.
The downward spiral never ended for me. I just got worse and worse as days ticked on. People reached out. I shrunk away. I didn't eat, I didn't sleep. I didn't do anything except wonder what I did wrong. Wonder what would've happened if she hadn't come into our lives. Wonder what would've happen if I had never met him.
Life would still be hell.
As much as I hate it now, every second of heartache he's given me was worth the years we were together. And I'd be a damn liar if I told you I wouldn't do it again. In a fucking heartbeat, I'd take him back. I'd race into his arms and smell his cologne just as I did all those years ago. Just as we used to do.
But I can't.
I saw him the other day in town, and he looked happy. Happy beyond words. He didn't say a word to me, but I knew he noticed me. He always does whenever we pass each other. He was with his beautiful wife, and their twin boys in the two-seated stroller. They'd finally gotten married, from what I saw. Engaged, at least. The rings on their fingers said everything that I wished we'd gone through.
But we didn't.
I think what really stung the most about our breakup was that I knew it was coming. I knew one day he'd grow out of me and move onto better things, better people, a better life. No matter what I did, I couldn't stop it. Deep down, I don't think I wanted to. As long as he's happy, I'm okay with that. I don't need him, anyways.
I'll be fine.
Eventually.
