I see that text sitting in my inbox. That innocuous “hey” that starts most of our conversations. I don’t have the heart to just delete it. I tell myself that I’ll keep it so I know to ignore you when you text again. I deleted your contact information. And unfriended you on Facebook. And Snapchat. And Skype. And I’m pretty sure I blocked you on Instagram. So, there’s a slim chance that you’ll see this.

Maybe that’s the point though. Maybe writing this where I know you won’t easily find it will finally make me free. I’ve been shackled to you for too long. Wrapped around your calloused finger and too invested in your calloused heart. I thought I could make you a better person. I knew your edges were rough, but I fancied myself sandpaper. Maybe my grit was too fine to make any real progress.

I’ve known you for two years shy of roughly half of my life. Eight long years with you in my life, and now I’m a few short weeks into life without you. You were a priority for eight years. I was an option. Don’t try to refute me. I know now that, contrary to what I thought, I was replaceable. And you went ahead and replaced me. It still leaves a breathless ache deep in my chest, like someone grasped my lung in their hand and ripped it out of me.

Some days, it feels like everything reminds me of you. The first and last song we slow danced to would come on at my old work, and I’d feel like someone took a bat to my ribs. I’ll see a car that looks just like yours — the same orange color and body and everything — and I’ll lose my breath and grip my steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.

I wouldn’t say I’m over you, not by a long shot. I wouldn’t say that I’m anywhere close to knowing how to function in this world without you to lean on. But, as much as I’m loathe to admit it, it’s unfair to you to use you in such a way. It’s unfair to me to use you in such a way.

Call me a masochist, but I want to respond to your text. I want to send you the link to this. I want some kind of contact because above all else you’ve always been there for me. But I’m not starting the cycle that ends in my emotional breakdown due to your emotional distance again.

Call me a sadist, but I want you to hurt like I do. I want your chest to ache and for you to feel like someone took a crowbar to your heart and ripped it free whenever you think of me. There’s a small part of me that wants to be the one on the other end of that crowbar. But we both know I don’t have it in me. I could never find the chinks in your armor anyway.

It’s been said that living well is the best revenge. I’m not too sure if revenge is what I want, but I want you to know that I can be successful without you. I want you to see that I make better decisions than you. I want you to see — to embrace the fact — that you never deserved me.