I miss you. But I miss the you I knew, I miss the man I was with, not the petty boy you’ve become. I miss the guy who missed the Stanley Cup final to pick up my family from the airport after their vacation because my car wasn’t big enough. I miss the guy who would turn up Nick Jonas for me in the car even though he hated it. I miss the guy who volunteered to take me to see Cinderella and didn’t complain when my mom, grandma, and best friend tagged along. I miss the you that I could curl up with on the couch and everything that was bothering me would fade away. I miss the you that made me want to be a better version of myself, and made me feel like I could do anything, but that I was perfect exactly as I was. I miss the guy who would hold me and look into my eyes and tell me I was beautiful after I had cried for an hour about losing my job and my eyes were all red and puffy.
I don’t miss the boy who only hits me up when he wants sex, while he’s hitting on the girls at work and hoping I won’t find out. I don’t miss the guy who brags about how great the single life to all his friends, about all the girls he’s talking to and all the strip clubs he’s going to hit. I don’t miss the guy who intentionally leaves me out of things when our friends get together and sends me pictures of all of you having fun together. Maybe you don’t know I’m home alone with my bottle of wine or my Advil PMs, but you do know how left out I feel when I see things like that. And I get it. They picked you, and I’m not part of the group anymore. I know I’m the one who was let go and had to quit working with you and I guess I should have known that no one who still works there would make an effort to include me in anything, because they think you will. But you don’t anymore, do you? In fact you’re probably relishing in badmouthing me to everyone I used to call a friend at work, making it sound like this hasn’t hurt you at all, like I was a pathetic excuse for a girlfriend and you’re all the better for being rid of me.
I know about the girl you went to “lunch” with. I know you matched on Tinder when you and I were on a break, and now that we’re broken up you’re probably doing her over lunch break like you used to do me. In the same bed, or same couch, same condoms in the top drawer. I hate thinking about that but I can’t get it out of my head. I hate thinking about her with you in that place that used to be MY home. I hate that you packed up all my stuff into three plastic Pick n Save bags and it was like I had never been to your place, like my toothbrush had never stood next to yours and my earrings were never in your medicine cabinet. And I hate that even though I gave all that kind of stuff back to you, your contact solution and Rogaine and t shirts, I somehow can’t get rid of YOU.
I can’t stop thinking about you, because it’s not in my brain. It’s a physical pain in my chest, in my arms, in my throat, in my stomach. And it’s buried deep, and I can’t seem to get it out and get it over with, because I hadn’t planned on getting over you. I hadn’t planned on forgetting the sound of your alarm clock or your sleepy morning face. And now I have to and I hate that.
I miss you, and I sure as hell still love you, but a part of me thanks you for showing what you’re really like. I’ve heard that a man shows his true nature when he’s hurt, and I guess that’s true for you. I don’t want to be with a man who goes out of his way to hurt his friends, or who buries his sadness in strip club lap dances. Thanks, but no thanks. I can do better.
No longer yours, and no longer waiting.