"I'm going to give you what you want, and that's closure."
When he sent that message, it felt like my heart was breaking again. And it wasn't closure. It was just pain. The closure was the conversation. The real one. The one where I was smiling about him for the first time in months.
My closure was that last conversation.
When we were talking, it struck me you were in Chicago. I was never going to see your face again. I was never going to hear your voice again. We were talking with no depth, there was no real meaning. We are never going to be friends again. Something aches when I write that. Something in my chest. Near my throat. Because of course I miss you. I miss you more than you miss me. I miss you more than you think. You've moved on. So what? Maybe I haven't yet. Maybe I won't for a while. But I will one day. And right now, I'm okay. Even if it's painful and a little heartbreaking, I'm okay. Because closure is closure. So we aren't blocked on everything. So we don't talk. There's a balance. And maybe if you still lived in Maryland, I'd want more. I'd make more of an effort. I want to be better friends. You're 10 hours away. You're always going to be 10 hours away. And I miss you. I miss you like crazy. But you're 10 hours away. We're in different worlds. In 2 months, everything's changed. We've changed. I miss you. But I'm not going to waste my time.
So I'll be truthful.
As I write this, there are tears dripping onto my phone screen. Which is probably bad, because my phone screen is shattered and water shouldn't get in the cracks.
As I write this, I'm aching.
As I write this, I'm thinking about how happy I was whenever I was around you.
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That's happiness.
That was before I read your notebook.
I'm glad I read it, though. Because then I wouldn't have learned. And if we were still friends, I think I would've been hurting more, knowing you were 10 hours away.
As I write this, I'm crying.
As I write this, I'm remembering.
I'm remembering how happy I was. And how happy it makes me to remember how happy I was.
