When the Leaves Fall | ✓

t a c e n d a

t a c e n d a

(n.) things better left unsaid; matters to be passed over in silence

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I remember all of it. It would be a lie to say that I got over you so much that I forgot what we were.

I remember that secret smile I got when I thought of you, wherever I was -- like you were a talisman I could hold out against the world. I remember falling asleep to your deep voice and the breathlessness of your laugh. I tried to memorize your laugh. I remember all of it. All of it.

I remember laying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, and thinking of you. Not just thinking, but agonizing over what I would do. I remember sitting on the floor and squeezing tears out because I knew I would have to end it. I remember all of the times I asked you careful questions, secretly resolving that if you answered wrong, I would end it then. You always failed, but my resolve always failed too. I never ended it then.

I remember that purpose in my heart, that sick fear that I would regret this, that I was making a mistake, that I would hate myself for this later -- that you would hate me for it later. I remember the awful pause, the silence, the wait when I told you -- "I think we should end it." I remember your anger. Oh God, I will never forget your anger. I remember knowing that all of this was my fault: the way I strung you along because I couldn't let go, because I loved you so, and the way I dropped you suddenly when I did let go. I knew it; you knew it. It was my fault.

I remember when my friends told me they were proud of me for standing up for my beliefs, and I remember feeling like I deserved all the hate in the world, because I had hurt you. You, who perhaps loved me most. I remember dying inside; I remember shaking; I remember all of the awful regret, the way I reached out afterward, leaving the door open. Take me back. Say you want me back, I almost begged, if you can beg without ever using words. I remember you saying, "I would be willing to try again."

I remember saying no.

I remember wondering many times, why I said no. Why I had refused happiness with the person I loved.

I remember, also, knowing that this was the right thing to do. I remember having to remind myself when you told me that my most deeply held convictions -- the core of who I was -- made you cringe. I remember knowing then that it was over, before you even said the next sentence. I remember knowing what I did was right.

That helped me, because I remember the recovery: every painful step. I remember glancing at my phone and knowing I had to stop waiting for a text from you. I remember the first time I made plans to go out with my friends after that. I remember asking myself, "Is this what it's like to get over someone?" I remember thrashing around in bed because the loss of you was so much.

And then -- it became a remembrance. Before I could even draw a line between pain and recovery, I was on the other side.

I could think back on the memories and, they were still bitter, yes, but there was a sweetness to them. Because they became a part of who I was. And when you tell me about the cute girls you meet and like, I tell you to go for it. And I have butterflies in my stomach again, but they're not about you. They're for someone new, and he's great, and I have a lot of hope about him.

But I still think of you. I will always think of you.

Maybe that's how it's supposed to be.