...you tell her about you relationship with him. You talk and talk, waiting for the cure. After a while, though, it occurs to you that even a perfect understanding of failed love is the booby prize.
You don't see him again. Sometimes you worry that he loved you better than any man ever has or will- even if it had nothing to do with you. Even now, he is every blue blazer getting into a cab, every runner along the river, every motorcycle coming and going.
~the girls' guide to hunting and fishing
I think my ex-boyfriend got married this weekend. I've been wanting to write about it, but I've written novels about our relationship. In my worn journal with the leather cover, scraps of paper tucked into books...poems, letters to him, lyrics to songs I swore were written about me and the way I felt about him.
I met him at 19. I had no experience of any kind of love or relationship before him. He was my first love, my first sex that wasn't drunken or a mistake, my first intensity and passion, my first live-in boyfriend...my first everything.
I spent two and a half years obsessed with him, one year trying to get over him, half a year stringing him along, and one year living with him.
At 24 years old, I got bored. I left him in Germany. I was selfish. I thought he would always be there. He proposed to another girl two months after we broke up.
The night he told me this news, I stayed up all night in a blurry daze trying to figure out what this was all about. I felt angry at him, angry at myself, and I hated that woman who was to be his wife.
About a month ago, I called his number in Austin. I wasn't drunk. I was lonely. I wanted to talk to the boy who had known me, who had told me I was beautiful and the smartest person he had ever met, and that I was a good person. Part of me arrogantly thought that I could get him back. I hung up the phone when she answered.
I immediately felt ashamed. I don't want him anymore. She wants him. He wasn't the one for me. I fell out of love with him, and maybe it was hurtful that I left him alone in Germany, but it was the best thing I could have done. For me, and for him. I hope he's happy now.
While I type those words, I know that they're partly a lie. While part of me wants him to be happy, part of me hopes that every time he hears Ani Difranco or Sarah Maclachlan, he thinks of me. I hope he misses me. I hope he looks twice at every girl who has dark hair and light eyes, both hoping and scared that it could be me. The way I look for him everywhere.
The way I imagine I always will, in small ways.
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