THIS IS HOW IT ENDS

It starts with joy.
Our love story read like a modern day fairy tale: Girl meets boy on the internet. Girl likes boy’s voice on phone. Girl stalks boy on social media and likes his looks. Girl starts daydreaming about boy. Girl meets boy for real. Boy surpasses girl’s expectations. Girl continues to daydream about boy. Girl secretly falls for boy and does everything in her power to have the feelings reciprocated. Boy falls for girl.

I’d plotted and calculated every step of our relationship, but I didn’t plan to fall so deeply. I mean, I’d never been in love before, so why should you have been any different?

I was wrong. From the start you refused to follow my script. When I wanted you to zig, you zagged. And I loved the unpredictability, but most of all, I loved you. Loved. Funny, I never saw Past Tense in our future.

With you I felt like writing love notes and sending them to you by bird. With you I found myself singing syrupy sweet love songs. With you I understood why anyone would sit down and write such cavity-inducing music, for it felt like I could write hundreds of songs for you.

When you spoke of our future, I saw it. When you told me you loved me, I felt it. You made me feel lighter, freer, better.

It ends with pain and disillusionment.
I look for you. Where did you go? You were with me just yesterday. Why can’t I see you now? I feel your presence here. You are that faint whisper of wind in my ear, that fleeting shadow at the corner of my eye. I always turn around when it’s too late to see you. Do you know why that is?

Where did you go? Were we not having fun? Were we not enjoying ourselves, enjoying our youth, our fleeting mortality? Were we not the best of friends? Was it something I said? I do that sometimes, you know. Give my tongue free rein, say what I mean not, and hurt others on purpose. It is all a test, you see. I need to know who’ll stay, who’ll look deep deep down inside of me and see me. All the damaged, self sabotaging, possessive parts of me. Who’ll love me in spite of myself. But you left, just like all the others.

Should I keep looking for you now? Do you really want me to find you? Did you run away, across freezing rivers and fields covered by swirling grey mists, just to get away from me? Or were you dragged, kicking and screaming, over barren wastelands and dead sea, to rot away as the days pass?
I feel, sometimes too much. I want to hate you, but how can I hate what I loved? Sometimes at 3am when I cannot sleep, I wonder if my lonely thoughts conjured you up. Are you just a figment of my imagination?

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