By Taylor Bassler
What happened to spending every weekend together? All of the dates we had planned: Ice skating because our best friends both work at the skating rink, a trip to Build-a-Bear and making each other stuffed animals, driving to a flower field and taking pictures because I could never have enough pictures of you or us. What happened to all of the movies we were going to see?
I don’t know why you actually left. I don’t understand how all of a sudden you went from saying “I love you too,” to “love you too,” to “love you.” Each time, more letters got left out. You think we rushed things, but you were the first to say it. When you told me you knew the way you felt was different, and you didn’t think we rushed things, I believed you. You didn’t care what other people thought, and neither did I.
While we were watching a movie, you told me about past girls, you said none of them had a future with you. You said we had a future, so we planned it. Lots of dogs, a hairless cat, a hedgehog, a monkey, daisies in vases above the fireplace because they’re my favorite. Lots of pictures of us together, all over the walls and counter spaces, showing all the things we did and how much we loved each other. We planned all of the little things we would do when we had a place all to ourselves. Slow dancing in our pajamas in the middle of the night with no music. Me teaching you how to play bass or guitar. You teaching me how to play video games. It was everything I could have ever wanted, and more.
You told me I made you feel like the luckiest guy in the world. Your mom told you that she could tell you were actually happy, and she would know, she’s a psychiatrist, but you like to call her a “feelings doctor.” You told me when I met your grandparents, they remembered my name and who I was even though they’re both forgetful. We both had what we called “tunnel vision,” you told me I was the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. So how is any of that supposed to tell me that you weren’t actually happy?
If you weren’t as happy as you told me you were, what else wasn’t true?
You told me you didn’t want to keep leading me on, that lying would only make it worse, saying, “It’s not you, it’s me.” I can’t believe you actually used that goddamned line on me. I didn’t think you were that type of person.
I may look like a bitch, with a nose piercing, dyed hair, and all of my black outfits and red lipstick, but I’m not. I still want you back. I still have all the notes, pictures, screenshots of texts, presents, your sweatshirt. I can’t bring myself to get rid of them.
But through all of this, I’ve discovered that I don’t need you as much as I thought I did. I’m not over you, but I’m getting there. Losing you made me realize that I don’t need a boy to make me feel beautiful.
So thank you, for helping me see how beautiful I was with you, and how I am even more beautiful without you.
Post Script Magazine. 