It's been a little over a month since my heart broke, again.
I really miss you.
I wonder how you are, whether you're ok.
Though we hadn't spoken in a while anyway, I miss the chance to speak to you. The chance not to worry whether I am allowed to speak to you. Knowing that you don't mind hearing from me. You once told me you loved talking to me, that it felt so easy. I wish it still was.
And it's not as though I even know you well or spent much time with you. The time spent was so amazing it means more than I can explain. I sometimes feel that the short amount of time doesn't warrant my feelings.
I don't feel I have permission to think of you. I haven't even done the usual long play of 'us' in my head, like I do with other loves. Scenes float into my head, usually at inappropriate times, and then I jolt back into reality. I still see you in my dreams - twice last week. Still so vivid, just like when I dreamed of you while you lay right next to me. I hate to remember, but I don't want to forget.
I hate the conditions you've placed on our friendship - or whatever it is now - in that text, almost two iPhone screens long. The text that I didn't read until the next morning, confused, with phenergan-blurry eyes, then re-read it at work where it made more sense, and made me run out crying. I hated the bluntness of your words. Your honesty (this trait is polarising). But more so I hated the good things you said about me.
I hate that it's up to you where to from here. That it's probably nowhere, not even friendship. And that you still somehow want me in your life - and haven't let me go, even though you want me to let go of you. And I'm not strong enough to hit delete. You're still there - in my phone, on my computer and camera, on my Facebook, in my head and heart. The other day Facebook showed me a 'memory' from 2010 - a picture of you and I. I don't need Facebook to remind me of that moment - I remember it as if it was an hour ago. The picture was taken five minutes before you drove me to the airport, and then we shared our last kiss.
And I hate you keep reminding me of what we can't be. I know that. It's like you have no respect for what we had. I adored (most of) what we had.
But most of all, I hate missing and loving you. Despite everything, I (still)
I often why it hurts so much to love someone. Or why I seem to love the douchebags. Friends often say that love and love lost is difficult for people without disabilities too. I get this. But from the perspective of someone with a disability/chronic illness, it is so much harder to love then lose someone who both saw past and accepted my skin and all its challenges for me and you. And that's what shone through your douchebaggery. Like I love you, it seemed like you loved me, despite.
The only positive thing that I can see to come from this is that you've done this to protect yourself, and more importantly, me, from getting hurt again.
Thank you, I guess.
I'll be ok.