There was a time when I thought we might be something real. I thought that maybe you’d be a nice person to spend some time with. I thought that maybe we could cuddle, laugh, and watch movies together. I thought that we could go on cute dates, holding hands while walking past closing storefronts on mild summer nights. But now I know better. But maybe I guess I don’t know better. Because I respond. Because I flirt. Because I let you tempt me with your games. I respond to your texts with sassy, classic responses. I enable it all. And then I wonder why I’m unhappy. I wonder why I don’t find the “nice guys” or why I ignore the “nice guys.” I wonder why I am trapped in this vortex of insanity, and why you keep contacting me. But the answer is pretty obvious, staring up at me from my bright phone screen. Because I keep texting back. When my phone lights up with a new text from you, my brain lights up with what I imagined could have been. I am not texting the boy who led me on and made my heartstrings into puppet strings, I am texting the boy I thought I cared about. The boy who walked with a cocky swagger, who looks better in black than the widows of our enemies or even anyone that I can think of, and one who talked intellectually about his day. One day you’re this normal boy and the next time I know, you’re into this world where you think being sad and lonely is okay. I am a happy person and I refuse to understand you and you confuse the hell out of me. Falling for someone or sometimes falling away from someone takes time and I think that’s okay. But slowly, too slowly, I will convince myself that I deserve better. Slowly, I will pick up myself and move on. Slowly, I will look forward to the day when I finally ignore your texts, your posts, and you.
Thank you for the butterflies in my stomach which I thought had died a year ago. But I’m sorry because even if I’m willing to meet halfway or even go over and beyond, I know you’re not ready…