Throughout our relationship, although I had my selfish moments, I stopped acting on what it was that I truthfully wanted. Who I wanted to be with. Where I wanted to go. What I wanted to do.
I was constantly worried about him – About yo-yo-ing him – About breaking his heart. About giving him a normal relationship. About saying one thing and doing another thing. About saying too much and explaining too much and never explaining enough.
Yet I never once thought: what if he broke my heart.
As if he wasn’t capable, as if my heart wasn’t able to break.
As if there was a positive correlation between the good guys, and my personal happiness. As if life was that simple.
Well let me remind you, my heart was beating to the shape of the thinnest glass, it had long been stretched at the seams. And one Thursday it so simply shattered. I turned my head, let his lips brush my cheek, and whispered, “I’ve met someone.” Trust me, I know how he felt, because my heart felt the tremors. And I scrambled to pick the pieces, cutting my fingers at the corners. Feeling the blood as it trickled scarlet.
Sure, he didn’t do it that time, it was me, it was precedence and it was my past. But once I pieced it together that first time, and once I went back to him, it happened again like the most ungodly punch into a mirror. This weekend it shuddered, pieces crashing down. The reverberations beating in my ear. A black hole clamping in its place. I stayed in bed for 24 hours, I couldn’t move, I laid there arms restless by my side, willing the pieces to mould, my mind begging them, tears streaming down my face, painfully, pushing the pieces together, back to where they had been, many years ago, first stitched into place.