I haven't seen you for a year now. Even just writing it down and thinking about it is weird. Peculiar, even, because back then I couldn't have imagined what it would be like for you not to be part of my every day. Even though, deep down, I always knew that one day it would end that way. Because we've never been official, never a thing. I wasn't your "anyone." Only a "close friend." Or a "best friend," depending on the day or your mood.
And now I'm sitting here, alone, like I used to — because that never changed. The only thing different is that I don't feel the way I used to. The attachment is gone. And now I'm even questioning what went down between us, because this moment, now, feels so different. Everything feels odd, because I don't desire you like I used to, and don't want you like I did before, and my nervous system doesn't need you, and I am cured out of you. And it's odd. That you're just gone from my life, and out of my body. The addiction, the attachment, the desire, the pain — all gone. And now I have to ask myself, and higher powers… what's left? What's left of you, and us? Only the memories, only love?
And I also have to ask them: has this always been the lesson, the moral of the story? To meet you, and recognize you, and fall in love again, just so that I'd have to let you go and live my life with this lesson learned… Question mark.
I have a problem with this, let me be honest here. Because I've spent the past 36 years of my life doing exactly just that — learning that people leave. With reason, without reason, with intention, or unintentionally, but they leave. They always left. And maybe because of that, I wanted you to stay. I wanted you to be different, because with you, it felt different. I knew it was. But even so, it wasn't enough to make you stay. And so you became just another lesson, just another name on my long list of people who left.
But the moral stays. And with that, hope — that the next person will be different, against all odds will stay, for once, for good.