I had been stubborn. I kept holding on to the thing I knew I already lost years back. But I thought that it would be better to have it in anyway, in any form, rather than to lose it at all. I said that people who said ex lovers can never be friends were wrong. But they were right.
Staying with him after the break up was the worst I did to myself. I spent years crying until I fall asleep for the self doubt I was fed with, his lies I chose to ignore, the worries regarding whereabouts, his indifference, and ultimately, the love unreturned.
But what was strange was I kept sticking to the torture even when I despised it. I kept going back and being dependent to what would bleed me dry.
I thought it was love. And I did fall. Too hard. I had a strong love, the kind that chose to see only the good things. I thought it was happiness. That he was my contentment with misery. Yes, he would give me joy and then desolation afterwards. I accepted it as normal.
But I realized that when he decided to go, he chose to forget. And when he said he wanted to still be with me without our label, he actually meant being together only when it was convenient. Of course, I did not want to see that. I denied that and convinced myself he was still in love but unready.
I couldn’t admit that I lost his love a long time before and that it was only pride that kept me with him. I did not want to endure that it was I that was dumped, unchosen, and forgotten. So, I held things together.
My mistake was I did not love myself good enough that when he started to purposefully hurt me, I embraced it for years and mistook it for confusion he would outgrow or that it was me who was misunderstanding.
And then one day, I couldn’t tolerate him anymore. So, I just stopped being there for him. I stopped communicating with him.
I waited three days for him to miss me, but he never came back. That moment, I validated my belief that I never mattered. Or no longer did. And on the fourth day, I melted my heart out. I would still get moments of sadness out of it but letting him go was the best thing I did for myself.
It devastated me to know that the person who loved me so no longer sees me as important, but what was good is that I started healing and redirecting my affection for him to myself.
I was distressed, but now, I could start being the old me again: no more waiting by my phone, singing-in-the-morning or in the shower, reading again, talking to my best boy pals I chose to ignore on his command, no more being careful with what I wear or say, no more being afraid of losing him because he was no longer mine to begin with.
I held on to him and to the heartache because I believed he was my delight. But if he really were, there wouldn’t have been nights when he would make me desperate for his voice.
How I wish I had been strong enough to have cut ties with him, on that Wednesday evening when I was so much younger than today, when he dumped me over SMS.