We were sitting around a circle telling stories and talking about past relationships and some of the worst things we have done.
When it's my turn – I lie.
I don’t tell them about the 20 messages and the 60 missed calls in which you begged for me to fight for our love, the same way you were willing to die for it. I don’t tell them that I kissed your best friend a week after I told you never to speak to me again, or that when you found out, it wasn’t from me.
I forgot to tell them the part where you lost who you were because of me. How you told me I made you become less of a man because of the way you would cry over me. How you picked up your old habits and would drink, smoke, and kiss strangers on the weekends; and how the weekends turned into weekdays. I skip the part where you swore to yourself you’d never love someone again - its not the kind of story I want to tell.
Because when they ask me about the worst thing I have ever done, it always comes back to you.
Because when they ask me about the worst thing I have done, I don’t tell them I forget that I broke your heart too.