It hurts more than you’ll ever know, the way you walked away, the feeling that invaded me as I tried to hold on to your cologne as it disappeared from my senses. It felt like I had been beaten. It felt like I had been shot. And the truth is, I had been shot. Your words pierced right though me like I was made of glass. Glass hearts, that’s all I have. You wouldn’t know that, though. You never did. But I can’t blame you. We were “never anything serious”. Is that what your thoughts were late at night? What was walking through your mind, while mine raced, paced, had shaken me awake? I let you walk away. I let you leave.
I didn’t do it for me, I did it for you, yet, still, it was one of the most selfish things I have done in my life. Why? I put the fact that I wanted you to be happy above all else. I was so caught up in wanting myself to feel good for doing what others couldn’t—let go—that I was numb to the cuts on my heart. I didn’t feel the burn at first. The way it slowly ate, starting at my toes, working its way up, slithering, melting, turning to ash. The way it smoldered as it made its way past my crumbling heart. I only saw your pain. And for that, I’m not sure I can forgive myself. I know I must, and I know I should. But will I? How could I? You might have been the best thing to ever happen to me; or the worst.
But now, I’ll never know. You got in your car on that bright, sunny day, and drove away without ever looking back. Did you feel the cold at your back? If I could have called out to you, told you how much you meant to me, I would have done it all. But I couldn’t. I stood paralyzed by the pain. I still lie awake, you know? Thinking about what could have been. I sit, and I think about what I should have said, what I could have done. But do you know the worst part? The part that chokes me up every damn time? It’s the way you didn’t, won’t care. It’s the way you’ll read this, or you’ll see it, and you won’t care. It’s the pain I’ll feel when you like it out of spite. When you share it because you’re hurting over someone else. It’s how that should have been me in your arms, kissing you goodnight. But it isn’t, and I’m alone. And so, I write. I type everything I’m feeling into this prose. Four hundred and fifty-four words. One thousand, seven hundred and seventy-nine characters, including the spaces. And do you know what I feel? I still. Feel. Empty. As I close my laptop, I stifle a tear and close my eyes, tuning out the world turned grey. And I think about you. Why did I let you leave?
