My Heart Hurts
God damn, my heart hurts. Not every day but more than I’d like. And certainly, more than is appropriate for such a brief relationship. The time we spent together compared to how long it’s been since I’ve seen you is embarrassingly uneven.
It might be because I’ve refrained from having, or failed to have depending on how I look at it, sex with anyone since you. I don’t know why. It could be a dry spell, just haven’t met a cool person in a while. It could be that my subconscious is stopping me in some way. Most likely it’s because I’ve been generally disinterested in dating or sex as of late. A gradual parting that has felt natural. I don’t crave the security or intimacy of a relationship I once did. Sure, it would be nice. But my mind doesn’t wander like it used to. That’s very likely because when I wander, my thoughts lead to you. And my fucking heart hurts.
I think of being sprawled out on your couch, while you sit upright with my head in your lap, listening to that song on repeat. I think of our first date, when we were four bars deep and too many drinks in but we both knew it was going perfectly. You looked me in the eye and asked, “How bad do you want to kiss me right now?”, with a serious, sensual tone. Picturing it even now, I impulsively take in a quick sharp breath, thinking about how sexy, yet approachable, your confidence was in that moment. But mostly, I think of how it easy it was with you. Until it wasn’t.
I don’t have time for these memories, so I divert my thoughts to something tedious like my taxes or something vapid like my outfit for my going away party. And when this doesn’t work, I have trained myself to think about you in another light. I think about how you never got out of bed when I left in the morning. Or how you never offered to pick up the tab completely. All in an attempt to change how I feel about the past – how I feel about you, so I can make my fucking heart stop hurting.
These first two strategies normally work but sometimes they don’t and I find myself screaming inside of my head, “Why?”. I ask myself over and over again, why didn’t it work out. What did I do? What changed? What are you scared of? All of which are questions to answers I never got because I was too proud to ask - or too scared, depending on how I look at it.
And now I’m here. Still writing about you, four months since I’ve last seen you. And probably six months since you last reached out to me first, when I started to realize you were done with me.
I need you to know that this not a love letter from a woman you broke. I am fine. And I don’t want you. In some ways, I’ve never been better. I’m not afraid to approach or date other men. We met at a time when so much in my life was uncertain and I was just getting started - in so many ways. Since then, my confidence has grown; I’m so much more comfortable in my skin than ever before. I am doing well; doing great. But I can’t shake you.
Deep down, I know that just because I am still thinking of you has little to do with you. I hardly knew you. And more to do with the fact that you were the last person I slept with. The last person to kiss me. The last person to rub my back until I fell asleep. The last person whose name on my phone made my heart hurt, in a good way.