I tell everyone who asks me that I don’t even remember why we parted ways, slipping into the familiar speeches I’ve been rehearsing for months now. I say I don’t mind speaking about you, that I haven’t dialed your number in a long time. I tell myself I can no longer recall the details of that day you left. I say that it’s been too long, that it doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t know what it is to you, only what it is to me, but I’m keeping things like that quiet. All I know is that I’m lying through my teeth when it comes to you. See, I say I don’t know how long it’s been since we last spoke, but there are four hundred and thirty-six lines drawn in my diary, and somehow I’m convinced this is your doing. I say I don’t remember the last words you said to me, but they are still lodged beneath my skin, each one a barb I can’t seem to get rid of. The only thing that remains between us is silence. I don’t know if I want to fill it back up anymore. I don’t know if I could, even if I wanted to. All I know is that I still open my diary and draw a line every day you don’t reach out to me and tell me you’re sorry. Truth is I should have told you that a long time ago, but I never thought the moment was right. Maybe that’s not something we get with every person - this one moment to make things right. Maybe sometimes things just end and they will never be the same again - and all we have to do is somehow come to terms with it.
1 | Sep 22nd 2022 14:44