I’m in your Ohio sweatshirt again. It’s not very warm; my nose is cold in my apartment.
I went to bed last night with the tiniest glimmer of hope that I’d wake up to a midnight text from you ending this break of ours. I didn’t.
Then I let the glimmer return until I saw it was past your alarm time this morning. You didn’t text me then, either.
I know you well enough that if you were to end the break today those would be the two times you’d do it. I mean, why wait? Why prolong the misery?
I’m not spending too much effort on trying to figure this out anymore. The thought occurred to me that if you knew you wanted to dump me today, you’d do it now. I don’t think you’d make me wait an extra 7 days just to hear some of the worst news I could imagine coming from your beautiful, bearded face.
Your car was parked by the gates again this morning. I imagined you’d left to get food or to work out because I also saw a car that resembled yours at 3 pm yesterday outside your building. I wasn’t going to go verify it was yours — it was an accident that it’d caught my eye in the first place — but my brain did mean things to me.
If it was you, some ideas crossed my mind as to why you’d be home so early: you were heart-sick, you were actually sick, you met a woman and had a nooner, you pushed back on work and stayed home/came home early, you were depressed because you’d decided to dump me later tonight, you were taking care of yourself for a change and played hookey, you had some kind of apartment thing to do. Just ideas…
It’s hard not to sound crazy right now.
I slept with your wadded up sweatshirt cradled like a stuffed animal in my arms. I’m not ashamed of that. I feel empty, lost, and I’m too fucking busy this week. I feel like a robot about to short-circuit. Move here, type there, do this, do that, must complete, refuel, rest, repeat. Oh and: don’t fall the fuck apart.
I am numb from holding my breath. My hope ebbs and wanes with every passing minute. Twenty seconds of hope, 40 of despair a thousand times over since you left my sight 7 days ago.
I’ve been taking some pics for my Instagram account. It feels ridiculous, like a cosmic joke. Normally I send you those pics. I’m just going through the motions, a robot again. I don’t feel sexy or beautiful or desirable. My orgasms are orgasmic. Nothing more. I’m almost too sad for that, but cumming makes me think of you and us in happier times.
I think of you stroking your cock and spurting hot semen on your hairy belly and I get jealous. Of you. Of your ability to be there with you for that. How ridiculous is that?? I’m jealous of you for getting to be with you. I guess this is where I start sounding crazy again.
The idea of anyone else being with you, of making you feel like I once did makes me want to scream. It’s how I know I’m not ready for this to be over. I’ve never cared about others moving on before and so I turned my back on them and blithely walked away with swagger. With you I will walk woodenly, jilted and wounded, but walk away I will, of course, if that’s what you want.
I told Peyton last night that we’d likely not see you this week due to busy schedules. It went over well, but there was disappointment.
I’m empty again.
I’m trying to connect the many dots that you’ve scattered out there. I can’t. They’re simply everywhere, TN. Which is when I hug patience tightly to me.
I keep wondering why I’m not mad at you for this. I’m not. At all. I feel a gaping space of fear and bewilderment, a little hope and a lot of strength, but I’m not angry. I feel badly for you that you are hurting this much to require such a drastic thing as pushing me out of your life completely for two weeks. I know how much you love me and how important I am to you.
Should I be mad, though?? I just can’t be. I wouldn’t be mad if you’d broken your leg and couldn’t walk. Your heart is broken about your life right now and you can’t be you for a spell. I get that, I really do. Heal, think, learn, be and hopefully you’ll come back to me.