I begin to believe that I will never again love someone the way I loved you.
And this is not a melodrama that I roll up, not snotty sufferings, after which my mother calls me and asks: “Are you alright?”
I think this is just what I finally decided to accept, with which I resigned myself. What I will not torture myself. This is no longer a great mystery why your laughter is still the only thing that awakens butterflies in my stomach.
I'm already tired of trying to drive them out of there, trying to find some other content for myself. Yes, it is not necessary.
Maybe some things should stay as they are. We can't do everything perfect.
I'll be fine. I know it. It is not that I did not think that I would fall in love again. I will love. I kissed, touched and saw a promising future in men that I really liked.
But wait, what feelings will be the same as we were? It was my death. This is the stone that pressed me every time I met someone interesting. This is the fear that I was afraid to voice. But I'm trying, now.
I think that's how I'm getting better.
I would like to say this to you personally. I would like to show you the scars that I have left after loving you, and how glad I am that they will never heal. I like to keep parts of us in me. Because in many ways you made me the way I am now. You gave me what you can hope for, what to expect, what to strive for. You were not just my light at the end of the tunnel, you were my reason for walking through the darkness.
I wanted to call you today and say, "Happy birthday, you're still my boyfriend."
But she could not, because it is not. Even if I really wanted to. You are no longer the one I should love. You are not the one to whom I can tell my silly stories. You're not the one I can hug and say, “I'm so glad you came home.” No more.
I hope it was the best day.
Because ... honestly? .. I'm tired of pretending. I know everything will be better, but for now, in my 23 years, you are my best day.