I remember how he sort of tore into my life and thought my name was Cecilia (it’s not). He was loud and tall and easy to fall in love with if you could overlook the selfishness. He overlooked my selfishness too.
I remember lying on the couch crying because I didn’t have the will to walk up the stairs and cry in private. I didn’t expect it. Most of the time I still blame myself.
I hadn’t learned yet how to be alone or who I was outside of another person. I didn’t really have friends. The world seemed frigid and isolated.
We’re capable of talking now. There is no yelling or insults hurled. The teddy bear doesn’t make me cry anymore. I am (mostly) not resentful.
I don’t know if I’ve forgiven him, though. Forgiven him the lies and the heartbreak. Maybe because I still don’t know what happened – I have my guesses – and so I don’t know how much there is to forgive. I’m working on it.
I don’t love him anymore. Haven’t for a long time. It wasn’t easy. There were so many memories and so many hurts. There was a lot going on. It wasn’t just him. It wasn’t just me.
Love and heartbreak sound cliché written down. Everyone has the same story on paper. I remember reading something on here describing heartbreak and saying, “Yeah, I know the feeling.” The feeling of losing your sharing-partner. Your friend.
He moved on quickly. I didn't.
Anonymous is enjoying much healthier love with someone else now.