the story of her

her

The words she wrote felt as though they were written for me. She is the reason I acquired this particular username. She has long moved on since we were "us", I assume...maybe not. She tells me things are uncertain. I hold onto it like the end of a taut, fraying rope. I wonder if she thinks of me softly from time to time.

She didn't break my heart, in many ways it seems she mended it. The first beautiful human I can ever honestly say I've loved to a degree. I loved her on the basis of almost plutonic. We never touched, never kissed, never spoke, never loved. Our "almost's" took place over a screen. Strictly digital.

Fuck digital.

I am not shy, I never have been. (Save for my crippling social anxiety.) She ruins me. She wrecks the image I want to have. She sees right through me. You can understand why I've been so distant all of this time. I've never been transparent before her.

I'd always hoped you could have loved me from a distance.

You can't imagine our "almost's". We almost made it, I almost kissed her. God, I wanted to kiss her. To feel the lips that spoke the words that made me whole again. Made me blush, made me wet, made me everything and nothing all at once. I wanted to write poetry about the way her eyes looked at me. I wish we could have looked at each other.

Don't ask me why I ruined it. Don't ask me why I let myself get in the way. Don't ask me if I regret it. Of course I regret it. I regret not allowing myself to know, not letting myself go with her, but most of all I regret hurting her. If I've said it once, I've said it a million times: I'd rather be hurt myself than to ever be the reason someone else was hurt. I try to convince myself that it didn't hurt her that much. But I don't get to decide that.

We talk from time to time but we never really talk. Our empty conversations carry silences we're too scared to fill. I don't think you ever get over someone who was your "almost". And I don't think I'll ever get over mine.

I'll wait for her, because who really knows. I might call her and spill my fucking guts out to her. I might self destruct also, which seems much more probable than her ever coming back to me.

If you've gotten this far, congratulations. You've read the words I'd never say out loud. I'll continue to write these words for her to own, and for you to read. She will be in every chapter, just as she is in my blood and my bones and my lungs.

She will take up every single page and I'll be damned if you don't fall in love with her by the end of this book.

I've never been fond of spiders, but once you're in her beautiful web of everything she is, you'll never want to leave. Even if it kills you.

They call that Stockholm Syndrome.

I must be sick.