WTF, I Thought I Was Over You

I hate how the second that I move on, you find a way to make me want you again. I hate how you text me at the worst possible time. How we run into each other when I least want to see you.

I hate how our lives keep colliding, making me believe that maybe we should connect again, maybe we were meant to find each other — even though I know that’s silly. That it’s not a sign. It’s just coincidence. Another way for the world to torture me.

I hate how, even when I feel like I’ve reached the point where I’m over you, I’m really not.

I hate how I still have all of your texts saved. Your pictures. Your voicemails. Your videos. I hate how often I look through them — and how often I read through my old journal entries, the ones where I was excited because we had just met and I hadn’t been hurt yet and I didn’t know what the future had in store.

I hate how I keep listening to your favorite songs, your favorite lyrics, as a way to feel close to you. How I pay attention to every line, deciphering the words to help me get to know you better. To see if I can figure out why your mind works the way that it does.

I hate how you’re still the first person I want to text when I get drunk. I hate how I still have your sweatshirt in my closet. I hate how I’ve stopped watching certain shows, good shows, because I would rather watch them with you.

I hate how I keep imagining scenarios in my head — of the interactions that I pretend I don’t want, but desperately do. Where you text me. Where you show up at my door. Where we happen to bump into each other and remember how much fun we used to have, how much fun we could still have.

I hate how I have no self-control when it comes to you. How I tell myself not to scroll through your pictures, not to see what you’re up to, because it will only end in pain. How I stick to my plan for hours, days, weeks, and then crack. I always crack. Because I can’t go too long without seeing your face, even if it’s only on a screen.

I hate how everything that I do, everything I read and watch and see, reminds me of a memory of us — even though there aren’t all that many. Even though it shouldn’t take long for me to erase all the moments we shared.

I hate how any thought of you — the sound of your voice, the shade of your eyes, the way your hair falls — makes my body react. I hate that my heart physically feels ill when I think about how much I like you, how much I want you.

And I hate how it hurts even harder when I realize we’re probably never going to be together. How I’m stupid for wasting my time daydreaming about you when you don’t really fit into my life. Not really. Not anymore.

I hate myself for wanting you, and I hate you for not feeling the same.