I’ve made so much progress.. you saw me last year. Heard me cry on the phone, saw the depressed statuses everyday, read the endlessly-long love letters I’ve only ever written to you. You know how much improvement there’s been.. simply because now I can talk to you without sobbing. I can see you without it all rushing back to me…but there’s not been that much of an improvement.
As I write this now, there are tears streaming down my face and I don’t care enough to act happy to anyone, even to my boyfriend. He knows I think about you far more than I ever should. He must see that I will never move on enough. Will never think upon my wedding day without a subconscious flicker of the image we planned for ourselves… of the children we planned to raise.. of the life we planned to have.. together. You were everything to me, more so than anyone can ever be again.
I’ve just seen pictures of you with her. That’s what got this all started once again. I know she’ll never compare to me. I was your first, and you were mine. First kiss, first love, first everything. No one will ever know you in the way that I do.. before you changed. Before you became tainted by the world, the alcohol, and the “friends,” who’ve done so much damage that I’ve wished them all dead, once upon a time. She doesn’t even know what she’s missing. She’s too dumb to recognize that there’s not even a soul in you anymore. You’ve cheated on all of us, I’m just the only one who you’ve ever told the truth to.. you knew that only I deserved the truth. That I expected the truth, even with the devastating consequences it has left in its wake.
Why? Despite every scar you’ve left on me. Despite the billions of tears I have cried for you. Despite the pain I have inflicted on myself when you would never sacrifice for me like I did for you… why do I still love you? Better yet, why, if there is anything good left in this world, why do I still want you so very much? That’s the million dollar question. I’ve spent years trying to figure it out…and know he will spend years cursing you for it.
Am I a masochist, or is this what true love really is?