The End II

Less than 24 hours later, and nothing has changed. The pain lingers and festers as it did before, except now I’m not so sure of anything. I had been so sure of my feelings the night we broke up. I was certain that I couldn’t do all I needed to to grow and become the person I was meant to be while I was with him. I was sure he wasn’t going to grow up a bit more if I just kept being okay with some of his behaviors. Now….I feel like I can’t do anything. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to go to work. I feel like I’m hardly functioning. Hardly there. Hardly surviving.

The girls at work expressed their sympathy, and encouraged as they felt was necessary. I nodded and smiled, but it wasn’t enough. The worst part are the questions. Having to relive the moment over and over again like a stabbing pain that takes over your whole body and causes you to crumble under its overwhelming weight. The next thing I know I’m curled up in a bathroom stall, sobbing on the floor. Praying no one comes in while I’m having a moment. Wishing everything was over. Wishing I never felt anything. Wishing I had never made the awful mistake.

I had one of the girls tell me to call her if I needed anything. I told her I would let her know, but I knew I wouldn’t. He was the one I would call when things got hard. He was my rock. The person who I trusted with everything. I didn’t doubt for a second that he loved me. I knew he did. Who else would see my entire mess, and love me still? Who else would put up with the doubt and the tears? Who else would still text me after I destroyed his heart and alleged happiness with “I still love you,” just so I knew? Only him.

When I got home, there was no text. No ‘I love you’. No ‘how was work’ to remind me that someone out there cared…and chose me. Just a bunch of old ones to scroll through as salt on the wound. Moments I had taken for granted. Words I had thought were just words. Just things you said to each other that meant something, but not as much as they meant after it was all over. My heart didn’t just ache but burned. I couldn’t breath. I threw myself on my bed and had a panic attack….wishing it would kill me.

It didn’t. I’m still here. Laying on my bed, with tears flowing freely. Wishing I knew why things changed. Wishing I had answers. Wishing I had never called it off….or that I didn’t have to in the first place. That he had done it. That it never had to be done. That things just worked out. That he found a job and suddenly couldn’t live without me. That I wasn’t a mess and could say yes, forgiving everything. That he would just show up at my doorstep and the rest would be a Nicolas Sparks story.

Wishing God wasn’t so silent.


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