Hope is alive. Hope roots itself so firmly it stays after all else has died.
You left me because I was not acting per your expectations and what you believe you deserved since what you had was not. Your pain is not anyone’s responsibility but your own. You are not heartless, but you tend to act as such for all the sh*t you are brought through by the pack, which claims you. They betrayed you, helped you, disagreed with you, grew with you. You cannot deny I was once a piece of your pack, and until the end of time, a part of your heart and memory claimed with a bit of me.
You beckoned for my return, calling upon me because I was familiar. My phone number may not have changed, but I have. Familiar to you, I am no more. Familiar to me, you are no more. Years change a person, not entirely, but drastically enough to turn us back into strangers. We are strangers with a soft spot for this piece of their past, this happy memory during a difficult time.
I do not remember where I heard this or read somewhere, “it takes at least two years to fall out of love.” One year and four months. I am still working on falling out of love, but I rejoice in knowing there was a love there. I am content in having felt for you within my heart before my time among the living ceases. Love that is genuine, provocative, and alive.
Think, if one of us were to die, would the other regret not having patched up our relationship, even if we were to call each other nothing more than a friend? Would we wish to have one more talk, one more heart to heart in the middle of the night? Will you feel the loss? I know I would feel yours, but that is because I believe in the connection surging after our first meeting. You and I were meeting in the center of my road at the end of my parents’ driveway one night.
The spark I felt could be a figment of my imagination, and here I am, holding on to a lie my brain created. Believed in it so much, I drove halfway across the country to see you and feel that spark once again. The hug in your driveway as the force of me wrapping myself around you into your arms pushed you against my car. There was a moment there, and I believe it was the same moment you felt all those years ago when you had nothing. That is if what you wrote to me in those letters all those years ago were telling your truths.
I cannot bring myself to part with these outdated letters. They sit in a box inside the envelopes you mailed them in. They accompany your old snapbacks, jewelry, jewelry you got me, Rasta wallet, school ID, a grade school photo, and a couple of old headphones. The iPod I had when we went to Darien Lake, where we took our first photo as a couple. This box’s contents are a reminder of our journeys, despite them mostly being separate. When our paths cross, they hold turning points and memories that still have me smiling. It hurts loving someone who does not love you back, and unloving them seems to be a false hope. Time goes on, as does my search for someone I will enjoy more than you and the possibility of not finding that someone.
You are always associated with parts of my most significant changes—Claim, not your role in my creation. There is no power for you there. I created myself off the experience I had with you. The loss of myself for you exchanges into losing you so I may re-find and re-invent myself. I am growing into the person I’m meant to become, evolving to take my place within the cycles of Earth amongst what holds truths for today.
Our paths may never cross again. Our paths may cross again tomorrow or two years from now. Whether or not our paths cross once more, I still mean it. I am proud of you. I am proud of your growth. I wish you the best in continuing your journey. But I will not be returning to you.
However, I will still be willing to open the door a crack for a chance at old conversations with the new us as we are, separately. Happiness, love, and good fortune will continue to pulse as time ticks on in its unstoppable ways. I am reclaiming my energy now that I have worked hard to detach my love for you.