Most days I try not to think it about it too long.
I try to find justifications and loopholes or anything to make me feel like I’m the one who was crazy for believing in you as much as I did.
I can’t answer how long we dated. Because we didn’t.
I can’t answer how many members of my family you met because over the course of years, we met each other’s family in passing like it wasn’t a big deal at all.
I can’t answer how many weddings we went to. But all I remember is, the one I stood at alone.
But what I can answer is, did I love you? With everything I had in me and with every bit of my heart, I loved you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.
Not having a label attached to someone I felt so strongly for, someone I continued to fight for, someone I never gave up on, someone who held my heart even when I was holding other people’s hand, didn’t make getting over it any easier.
It left my healing process blurry and uncertain of what was real and what wasn’t.
It left me laying alone at 2AM playing the what if game.
It taught me goodbyes don’t ever actually hold the weight of its definition, not when you run in circles.
I truly believed a history entitled me to your future. A future that wasn’t just an idea but one we talked about.
The word “wife” never scared me as much as it did you. Not if you were the one standing beside me. I would have been really proud to stand next to you. The future as much no one knows what it holds for any of us, I looked at you confident like you were it.
And when you are that sure of someone and you’re that confident in your feelings when they choose someone else, it almost feels like you can’t even breathe in moments you’re trying to.
Like someone has knocked the wind out of you.
I try to heal and move on and I’m met with the reality of memories I can’t seem to let go of or move on from.
A list of firsts run through my mind because you held all of them.
I didn’t need someone’s label to fall head over heels in love with you. And just because we didn’t date, it didn’t mean my heart didn’t break when you finally told me there was someone else. And not only that, but it was her who got every word I deserved to hear.
And I look at a stranger who has the life I always thought would be mine.
But it isn’t. Because you didn’t choose me. And that’s what it came down to.
Regardless of our history or how we each felt and what was real and what wasn’t. The reality was, it was never going to be me.
I remember the night it ended. Us. Whatever that “IT” was and I remember not believing you.
We had seen each other in and out of so many other relationships and we always found our way back. Everyone else was just a compilation of time to waste. But with her, it was different.
Jealousy is an ugly quality to have and not one I’m proud of.
But I look at her and I wonder what she had that I didn’t. And I’ll always compare myself and feel like I fell short. But if love was something to be won, I put up a hell of a fight.
The hardest part though about acceptance, is realizing even my most valiant effort wouldn’t have stood a chance next to her.
Because all of it comes down to a choice. And it wasn’t me. Even when I wanted it to be.