I started to imagine we would have the most incredible, last night together. You moving out next Wednesday and our future over since last Thursday. In our fickle, forever relationship, I pictured one, last fun, full of conversation night. I clung to, even the thought of, one last night tripping with you.
Oh, but you tore me apart. Punched me in my stomach a few times these past two weekends. I don’t know if I can ever forget what you did.
I’m well aware, I’m the one who broke up with you, via text, lest I forget. I’m the one who told you verbatim: I can’t speak to you; can’t be with you; can’t see you.
Those words were cumulations of so much pain, so much pain that I couldn’t handle alone anymore. I was/am in such a dark place that I needed the distance, to take care of myself and to not take you there too.
And you never, not even once asked that we stay together. Instead whenever I feebly attempted to talk about it, you always said: whatever you want.
Whatever I want, means you made a choice. A choice to let me choose.
I love you beyond words, any words that I could perfectly piece together and write to you. But neither you, or I, should be going through this misery.