One of the things I hate most is that you are living your life as if you have a full understanding of me, of what happened, of the way things are. I’m trying to let it go (thank god for therapy, am I right), but it’s hard to eat this bowl of cereal and swallow the truth of this situation.
Twenty-five years and this is it, huh?
Twenty-five years and you don’t understand me at all.
I hate writing about you. Thinking about you. Thinking of the things we used to do. The games we used to play. Would Golden Eye fix it all right now?
Can’t we just order a pizza and pretend like this never happened? Talk until 5 am again until we were so delirious even the air made us laugh. I’d like to go back to those times. To that place. Where it all felt safe and warm and we could exist together.
Would you want to go back? With all that you know about me now. With all the damage that’s been done? Because I would if you would. If you jump, I’ll jump. Too cliche? I don’t care. I’d turn back in a heartbeat. It hurts me too much to think about the rest of our lives without each other.
Does it hurt you too?
Because I know you’ve come to terms with things. It seems you found a way to wrap everything neatly in a bow. How did you do that? Can you show me, teach me? Because I’m still struggling with keeping it locked down in that box in the corner of my mind while you’re out here coexisting with the brokenness of us.
I just — I don’t want to think about you anymore unless we’re an us again but I don’t know how to stop. How to see the things that still feel like you and smile at the times gone by. Twenty-five years wasn’t enough for me. How is it enough for you?
We still have so much more to do, to see together. Don’t you think? And what will those things be without us to tackle them together? What will we do when faced with the Ys in the roads we always used to face together? Together. Do you think about these things too? How have you already progressed through the five stages of grief. I’m still on one. Sometimes two. Anger. Denial. It’s hard not to feel either. Not to feel anything at all when I think of you.