Hey there. I would ask you how it’s going, but let’s be serious. I already know. I know simply because I’m not afraid to look you up, or say hi when our paths overlap, or meet you for drinks even. I know because keeping up with you doesn’t torment me in the slightest. It’s great to hear you’re doing well. I’m glad you’re there to Like my Facebook status, or comment on how handsome I am in my profile picture. I’m glad we never made it to the point of no return.
I mean, what we had wasn’t epic, it wasn’t eternal by any means - but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t special. We swapped stories and spit (more than that, more often than not). Dinners. Beds. Movies. Laughs. We met each other’s friends, yeah, but not each other’s families. That was good enough, wasn’t it? We were intrigued by each other’s details; we ate up the minutiae every date like the other was a beautiful mystery. You never really gave yourself away, and neither did I. ‘As it should be’, I always thought.
Naturally, it wasn’t flawless. I’d hurt you once in awhile, and you’d return the favour. I’d neglect your birthday, or our rendezvous would become rather infrequent, eventually dwindling to nonexistence. Our indifference we developed made us unwilling to even argue about anything. I wanted to hate you, and you me, but I’d have to love you first. We never quite got there, did we? Thank God.
But hey listen, don’t get me wrong. I considered it, albeit in the most casual way possible. I really liked you, but saying I love you and meaning it? Too heavy. We were too fun for that, right? We liked each other way too much. Seems silly, like a copout, but we couldn’t love each other because we liked each other. Like is a firework, a beautiful flash in the pan. Love? Love is different. Love is a tattoo, a 16-car pileup, a scar. Permanent.
We never made it there, but hey, that’s okay. We made it to other places, didn’t we? We did that show together at the Sound Academy. We fell onto my couch and watched that movie you were always talking about. I liked it, really. We made it to those bars without names, to the beach, to those outdoor concerts and to those late breakfasts. I taught you to play pool (as if I have any clue myself) and I edited that script you had aspirations of getting picked up. We Skype’d, we texted, you tagged me in those pictures from that one night. Remember that night where you met my friends? They really liked you, they told me after. We walked to nowhere in the rain, and you complained that your hair was getting wet. I told you to suck it up and ruffled your hair even worse. We made out in strange places so often that it went from cliché to avant-garde and back again. We got kicked out of places together. That’s gotta count for something, right pretty lady number x?
You taught me what people I loved could not. That it doesn’t always have to be all or nothing. That I don’t have to regret my choices, or defend them to other people as it seems I’m so often forced to. Because occasionally, I make pretty good choices, like dating you for the short time I did. You said dating should feel good, feel easy, and that it shouldn’t break your mind with anxiety.
Most importantly, you taught me that the default after the regression of a relationship (whether it be semi-serious or merely a female body to have in my bed beside me at night) isn’t necessarily total chaos or utter destruction. It can be a friendly inbox message, a smile at the bar we’re both at, or a thumbs up and a long hug when one of us accomplishes what we had been talking about for years.
Thanks for it all, whatever it was, everytime. All of you. I’m always rooting for you.