Musings on love, part 3
This is getting to be a daily thing…
The 2nd half of this Part 3 was actually written on the same day as Part 4 (which, I guess, judging from trends, will be posted tomorrow) The reason why I’m splitting it up is because, not only is Part 4 really long, but it’s probably the one I feel deepest about, hence I believe it probably should get its own section.
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(Originally written around November 25th or so? What happened between this entry and the last was, well, the aforementioned dithering. She began leaving suspious status messages on her MSN account (in FRENCH, no less), and while I hated doing this roundabout “I’m not really talking to you but here’s what I think hahahaha~” game, I was (and probably still am) too much of a sentimental fool to leave that alone. I responded in like kind with messages that could easily be read as responses to her messages.
Some time around this period I also found out she had sent a mail to one of our mutual friends, whom I’ll call A. This was kinda significant in that this Awas someone I had talked to who was, and still in, a similiar predicament, in that A is thinking she should leave her boyfriend of a few years for nearly the exact same reasons my ex was giving me. A never told me the specific contents of my ex’s mail, but apparently my ex wanted to talk to “a friend of my ex-boyfriend”.
This, coupled with the above silly MSN games, made me think that she wanted to get back together. And then she sent a mail to that effect, saying she still missed the times she spent with me and had thought several times about asking me to take her back. I recieved this email on my Monday morning, her Sunday night. I hummed and hawed, and the second I told another friend of ours I was going to call my ex she appeared online. I asked her if she was free to talk and the reply she gave me was basically “I’m sorry, I have a lot of homework due tomorrow and a test I have no idea who’s going on about in on Wednesday. Is Thursday alright?”
Understandably, I was more than a little pissed. I obviously still felt a lot for her, and she just sent me an email saying she still thought about me. And then she told me “Hey, I’ve got homework. Would you mind waiting 4 days?”. I basically told her off, before telling her I still missed her but couldn’t be with her anymore if she was going to keep putting other things before me. She apologised, asked for time and wondered if I would pick up when she called. I said I would.
She never called, but she sent a letter.
This part comes from after reading that letter. )
A month and a half now.
You looked back once. Or at least, you pretended to. Or, perhaps, you thought you wanted to. It matters little now.
You looked back once, but you turned your head back again, quickly. And I, for my part, continued playing the role I play so well, tried to let your gaze linger, tried to make you see what you had been missing, what still lay within your grasp.
You looked back, but other things caught your eye.
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(Originally written on December 1st)
There are times. Times when everything seems like it’s going well, when it looks like I have, in some way, put to rest the events of the recent past. Times when it looks like my pride, while hurt, broken and bruised, seems relatively intact, egging me on to live my life, her frivolous heart be damned. Times like those come a lot easier when I’m with friends, when their concerned questions of “How’re you taking it?” demands a cool, composed “Eh. I’ll get over it.” Times when the olde swagger in my step harkens back in my footfalls, when my disdainful eyes cast passing judgement on all I see, times when I walk, tall, proud, and unyielding to all. Times when I think “Fine. She’s chosen her path, and my path was decided by me a long time ago”, and I work actively, decisively in bringing that path to fruition.
And then there are times that just creep up behind me, on feather-fleet tiptoe. Gently, softly, so it goes, until the knife is thrust deep into my heart, and I feel the blade turn, and twist, carving its bloody, messy path whichever way it pleases. Times when I can physically feel the pain of loss, times when the agony climaxes in a pulsing crescendo, and I am bent over, unable to speak, unable to do naught but hurt.
Times like today.
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-Stranger