Relapse

If I were to paraphrase the way my relationship was just summed up by the man who made up the other half of it, and the other half of me, it would sound like this: "Well, hey, it was a good time, you know. Had some fun. It just ran its course."

Ran its course. Had some fun. GOOD TIME.

If I had a brown paper bag, I would be breathing into it right now. Instead I'm suffocating.

It is clear as day right now the imbalance of the relationship I invested so much of myself in. Why did my heart rip out while his remains intact? Why am I in a puddle on the floor while he's "seeing what it's like" not to date me?

So stress-free, he says.

Insert another dagger into my soul, please.

I found a note this morning that he had written in a small notebook over the summer. He used to leave me notes before he drove back home after a weekend visit.

"It was sad to see you so sad!" it read. I used to cry when he left. Looks like I still do.

At the time it was going to be another five days until I saw him again. "But I love you," he wrote, "so I'll make it through."

But what if I won't?

My insides are screaming with hate right now. Hate and hurt and fire. He tells me I'll be fine. I know he already is. It's not fair. It's not fair when I wanted to keep going, to put up a fight to break up the mundane routine that brought us to this point.

He threw in the towel. He quit and it was easy.