It was the strangest thing. Thinking about getting to the place where I would be okay, where I would no longer be sad, where I would move on from him, – made me cry. It made me inconsolable.
Was it because I was giving up on him, on us, on him being the person for me?
It could have been because someone had done it to me, and I thought about how much that hurt. I remembered the definite cuts and bruises that caused. In times past, they had left me on read, moved on from me, got engaged, got married, brought his wife to my best friend’s wedding, lived with his new girl, lived his life without me.
Honestly, It wasn’t so much that. That made me detached and nervous. But at the end of the day, I got my hair done with my ex’s wife, we all danced, and the next day I shrugged about how odd it was.
But this immovable sadness was definitely something different, stifling and untouchable. It was misery brought on by joy with another. It was seeing the last few sentences of the last page of a good book. Punch and pushes into my chest that we would be no more. Breathless, final and desolate. We would not get to live my romanticized, controlled, perfectly planned out, thought to the end, his and my, love story.