Well, Dailybooth. My life is fucked up. I guess it's my own fault for thinking this could never happen.
We were going to be the greatest adventurers the world had ever seen. We were going to travel the world together. We were going to buy a map and a bunch of pins. We were going to sell everything and buy backpacks. We had money in a box we called our "escape plan". We were never going to fight.
We were never going to not be together. Being with her was as easy as drawing breath, and she felt the same about me. We would laugh and play and yell and it was perfect.
She was perfect.
We slept in the same bed and it felt like as long as I'd been alive, I'd always needed her weight on my right side, holding me down. There's a certain way people feel when they exist that close to you. A familiarity that's unique to their body and their spirit. A sensation that doesn't have any corporeal purpose for being.
She would tell me about her dreams and I would tell her about mine. We were going to be magnificent.
We were going to get married. We were going to have daughters. We were going to live in Florida where it's warm all the time and get real jobs. We were infinite. We were flawless. We were the be-all and end-all.
We were one entity.
But she doesn't see it like that anymore.
I wish it was my fault so that I could fix whatever I had done.
I wish I was asleep and when I woke up, she'd be there alongside me in these tiny, twin-size beds.
I wish I could turn around and tell her that I love her.
I wish I could take her in my arms and kiss her for days and days and days.
I wish I could talk to her about blatantly stupid ideas like how if we were stranded on a desert island, we wouldn't need food or water or shelter because she's all I'd ever need. I wish she'd feel the same.
I wish I could have another chance, but that's not how falling out of love works. One person decides they don't feel anything anymore, and the other person is left grasping at straws.
I know it's going to get better.
I think I'm going to be alive tomorrow.
But I also know that there's a part of me that's never going to come back. There will always be a part of my heart with her name on it. There's a few seconds before I go to sleep that - for the rest of my life - I'll think about her. I'll think about all the things we could have been- No, the things we were going to be.
No one's going to "get" me on that same level. No one's going to be that accepting or know me that intimately. But is that because I'm not going to let them? Is this how people get to be so blase and stoic that a million psychologists can't make them blink?
And in turn, no one's going to accept all of her little inconsistencies, all of her adorable quirks and her mannerisms. Her likes and dislikes. Her sense of humor. Her attitude.Someone's eventually going to try and change her, and I hope to whatever god you prefer that they don't.
We were perfect. We were amazing. We were adorable and flawlessly made and surprising. We were beautiful.
Or, more accurately. She was.
I want her to bust through my door like Kramer and tell me she was kidding. That the whole thing was a joke. That she's still passionate and in love with me, and that I was dumb for thinking otherwise. I want her to tell me that I was right to never question our relationship. I want her to tell me that we're leaving the country tonight with one bag apiece and that we'll be back when we're good and ready.
Most of all, and probably most futile of all, I just wish with every fiber of my being that she somehow found a way to be in love with me again. Some way that I made her happy.
As long as she's happy, I can find a way to be happy. Maybe not this year, maybe not next year.
