I don’t hate you; it’s so easy to believe that this word reflects the kind of maddeningly submissive melancholy I’m having a hard time getting rid of. I hope you’re happy. I know that phrase has been made a cliché and can seem condescending, but I mean it. I hope you are as I perceived you to be—a person who does what he wants to do and in that, finds happiness. I think/hope I said this to you more than once during time we spent together. And I know eventually (maybe soon), I’ll understand that I was (maybe) part of your journey to realize you really do want to be with her—however truly and honestly you’re capable of being with someone—and that she and your relationship are part of what makes you feel alive. That is what I want for myself (something you contributed to at some point), and thus it’s my instinct to assume it’s what everyone else wants on a most basic level.
Stay with her because hers is the ego that can handle you, while mine cannot. As much as I feel for you; as much as I wanted it to work out because I thought we were so fucking good together and were such a good balance of compliments and opposites; as (unfortunately) hopefully as I am waiting for your next vaguely inviting text or look—I can’t deal. I can’t take being one of (however many) women on a list. I want to be the first person you think of when you wake up and the last person you think of when you go to sleep. I’m not done fighting for this ideal. Some part of me lives only through that hope.
It’s easy to think it’s all bullshit and that people are only supposed to be together with any one other person for a short amount of time. I don’t like easy. I am not easy. It feels inauthentic for me to try to convince myself (as hard as I try to adapt my way of thinking; as much research as I do on the Cinderella Complex and work so hard to eradicate any inklings of my own) that I would be OK with having only a piece of you.
I have no desire to run your life. There are recesses of my mind and my experience that I will keep to myself forever because they make me who I am and I guard them as such. I’ve grown to treat others as if they operate by this same rule and I do my best not to pry. So maybe I wasn’t good enough at expressing that to you while I had the chance. Maybe I’m missing that fundamentally important level of self-awareness.
I’m sorry if I came off as a princess. I’m sorry I let you pay for so many meals. I’m sorry I didn’t leave you alone after learning she was still in the picture so that you could figure out what you really wanted and only let me know what kind of decision you’d reached after having made one. I understand that last one is not my “fault,” but sometimes I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish I’d maintained my healthy skepticism just that much longer.
I do and don’t wish that. I would have missed out on a lot of learning. Suffice it to say I understand more and more how easily emotions and minds change. I understand what being confused is like. I can sympathize with hating and loving someone at the same time.
But you handled me carelessly. You were not charged with my peace of mind, but you were aware of my feelings and continued to see me in addition to others, which is not fair, it’s disrespectful—and painful. I have learned to judge a person based less on their words (or even intentions) and more on their actions, which is another cliché until you live it. You words have enlightened, humored, seduced, comforted, and elevated me, but your actions have killed (some part of) me.
I miss you; I hate you so much.