I realise what I did was wrong, it was insensitive. I know that since I thought I never made any promises, I didn’t need to explain anything.
But. But then I remember at some point, at the beginning, I felt guilty even about the littlest things, and felt what I did was wrong. When I confessed to you, and you assured me it was fine. I took it at face value. To confess, was a selfish act to rid myself of the guilt. It was cowardly. How could I be so daft to ignore the underlying truth that I clearly knew. Felt. But chose to turn my back to, and go on to do even worse things because I chose to believe what I wanted to.
I told myself, and other people that I liked you. Just not enough. I really enjoyed your company, and thought you were a genuinely decent guy. But that just wasn’t enough for me. For me to want start anything substantial with you. Not romantically, not something that I would want to commit to for significant amount of time. And so, I used that to justify, that what I was doing was ok.
I guess I never thought about how you would feel, how I could hurt you in the process. For that, I’m sorry. That’s shit of me. It wasn’t the right thing for me to do. Nobody deserves that, especially when you’ve been nothing but good to me.
The truth is, I was also afraid. I was going through a period time, where I was using all other things, other people, as an escape, a distraction. When we started hanging out, it seemed so effortless. It was just what I needed. But then it also seemed too good, too fast. I wasn’t ready. For anything really. And as a usual routine, I try to create order out of chaos. I made myself believe that this wasn’t what I wanted, that I longed for something else and someone else instead, and it was all just temporary.
Some part of me has held other truths back long enough, but I realise something changed in me at some point. The truth is, as harsh as it sounds, I never imagined a future for us. Scratch that. I did try to imagine that future, it just never looked right. Not to me, at least. That was enough for me to suppress my feelings. At some point I really did develop a deep fondness, that I tried to push away. I loved you.
If you’ve read my past few blogposts, you’d realise I seem to throw that word around easily. The word that should hold so much weight, so much power, so much intensity. And you might think, how on earth can she so easily pin that down as love. And how can she love so easily. To be frank, I have no fucking clue, but I’ve loved so easily and so much and so frequently in the past half year, after the first time. In a way, I see it as life reminding me that I don’t have to be afraid that I can never love again. A process to help me heal. But I’ll let you on a little fact that might seem funny. Ever since you cut me off, I stopped trying to find the next love. More like, I stopped life. Just for now, at least, until I get my grip of all the other things I’m trying to find meaning in.
And just in case you were wondering, and perhaps you’re not, and never even tried to fathom a passing thought. But just in case you were. No, I never had anything for him. I never did. Him to me, is like a schoolboy, too immature to process a proper courtship. He’s only present in my sphere when he is right in front of me. When he’s out of sight, he’s completely out of mind. And no, I never had any feelings of fancy for him. Definitely not love. He was only an outlet for my frustration. One that I should never have let it out on. I rarely regret, but for this instance I truly do.
Maybe a part of me is also holding back on another truth that I’m still trying to suppress, even until now. The truth that I didn’t just love you before, at that bare glimpse of a moment. That short period of time. That episode we had. The truth, being that I might still love you, even now. Maybe.