You delete their number. You pretend they don’t exist. But the ache in your soul says you’re full of shit
BY THE CHEEKY CHARMER, IMAGE BY ALEX GREEN VIA PEXELS
She’s gone.
And the thing that hurts the most is knowing you’ll never hold her again. You’ll never kiss her or look into those eyes. You’ll never feel the curve of her snuggled into you at night. You’ll never make love the way only you can. She’s not your person and everything you were, has crumbled and gone.
All you’re left with are the useless mementos you were keeping from dates. A beer mat from the first bar you went to, rowboat tickets, the score card from when she trounced you at crazy golf. Things that were only worth something to your heart. Things you were saving for a birthday surprise, a loving tribute of your most precious moments. And you realise they were only ever destined for the bin. Maybe you’d have saved yourself this pain if you’d dumped them there in the first place. Instead of pinning to them your hopes of all the magical things you saw, a future, a life, a love; you should have seen them for what they were, sweet little nothings that would only ever end in nothing.
And the thing you can’t get past, the thing your mind can’t process, is the person who once meant everything to you is gone. That everything you shared: the deepest of connections, the secrets your soul whispered only to them, is no more. For a short time, you shared everything. An intimacy you don’t have with even the closest of friends. And yet here you are, friends remaining, but the owner of your heart is gone. And you wonder what the point in these intimacies are. Why we give so much of ourselves to something too fragile to last.
You wanted to be their person. The arms that held them through the storm. The person who took care of them when they were hurting or sick. But you know you’ll never be that, you’ll never do those things.
And you wonder if they truly knew how much you loved them. How you’d have done anything for them. How you worshipped them, how they were everything you dreamed of and more. That all you wanted was to give them the world.
You question whether love even exists. Perhaps it’s just a fairytale told to children to help them sleep? Maybe happily ever afters don’t exist?
And you don’t think you can do it again. Play Russian roulette with your heart. But you know you will. Because that’s who you are. A Romeo destined to search endlessly for something you don’t know if you believe in anymore.
And you know you have to cut off. Cut them out of your life like they were never there. Delete the contact, the messages, the photos, because it’s the only way you can survive. It’s the only way you can move forward and thrive because you can’t see them with someone else. It tears at your heart too much. And friends aren’t an option because it leaves a halfway house for hope. Hope that maybe just maybe you’ll get back together. But they’ve made it clear there’s no going back so you self-protect for your own sanity. You delete their number. You pretend they don’t exist. But the ache in your soul says you’re full of shit. You can pretend as much as you like but, right now, you can still feel their kiss.
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