By the end of this day, I should understand that it’s all really over. I should know, realize, and accept that my more than 10-year first love is not going to happen, even though this morning should’ve been the day we married. Because after all, it hits so hard in a language I have never known before, not even in the hardest period when everything crumbled. It just hurts so much. But I think I have cried my lungs out. And I think I have cried enough. Today is really going to end, and so will my almost.
Hey. I don't know if this will ever find you, or if it even should. But if it does, someday, or somehow, I hope by then, we can remember it all in a way that softens the edges of what we couldn't hold. Before the beginning, I kept buying myself more time. Telling myself I needed it. More days, more weeks, more moments to understand you, to understand us, to think until I drowned, to stop thinking when it hurt too much, to feel what I kept denying, to forgive what I didn't want to admit, to quiet the storm inside, to loosen my grip, to finally let you go. But every time I said: not today, maybe later, maybe after the next small milestones. After we met. After a week. After your special day. After my birthday. After yours. After December 21. God, it stings just naming that date. And maybe I would keep doing that. Keep pushing the line further away, making excuses, inventing new deadlines just so I could write you back into existence. So I could keep you here, on the page, ev...