He said, “it might hurt you right now, but it’s the fair thing to do”. I just thought, “this is it, this is the moment when someone breaks your heart”. I‘ve heard about it so many times, that I was like, “this is the chick-flick scene where I glide my back against the wall and the tears, the pain, and the violins would come.”
But I didn’t.
Then, he gave me the whole, “I love you but…” speech and I remembered a quote that said that nothing you ever say before a “but” really counts, of course I wasn’t going to invalidate the only thing I could hold on to. I held on to it until he finally got to the point and said, “I can’t say I’m in love with you at the moment.” And there it was, that line, staring at me like, “this is your moment, go melt down.”
But I didn’t.
I didn’t hear the sound of my heart breaking. I just felt my shoulders getting lighter. I felt the world making fucking sense again and went all Zen about it. I wrote exactly what I thought, no angry words, no reproches like “I asked you so many times” or “You said you were” or “Why did you let it linger?” I completely ignored the fact of him having a million chances before and was very grateful about this last confession.
Because, you see, for every time he didn’t say he wasn’t in love with me, there was me already knowing he didn’t… If not, why would I ask?
At the end, it all turned into this feeling of gratitude towards him because he may have bullshited or he may be a great person. I don’t know, but the bottom line is he set me free from something I created. Something I never believed in, but wanted to work so hard I got completely lost in. He could be blamed of course, but his issues are none of my concern. I’m just glad that he triggered so much shit in me that I had to learn a few new tricks. I’m pretty proud of that right now and that is mines to keep.
I thought I’d ask myself if this was true at any point, the passion, the pain, the goodbyes, but turns out I don’t care about that either. If it was half true, twenty five percent true… I don’t’ give a fuck, I smoked his cigars, wore his shirts like they were my own skin and drank his lies while he held me like I was his only air to breathe. One day, I might not even remember what all this was about, but I’ll always have that.
He always had the power and I always hated it because it was me who gave it to him. At the end, it did some good because he could kill all of this nonsense and I’ll never have the chance to thank him or say the words to make him understand what all of this really means. What it meant to be so close to a great love that I could almost feel it. So close to a heartbreak, I could almost understand them.
One day, I’ll get there and I’ll have this as the golden ticket they call experience. Nothing else matters as far as I’m concerned.
At that moment, he couldn’t say he was in love with me.
At that moment, I couldn’t say if what I ever felt was love.
