I was burning with rage, resentment and disappointment. Accumulated over numerous unanswered, unacknowledged DMs, texts and emails. He said he was busy. I said I understood. Until I ran out of the patience to wait it out. I replayed every chat conversation over in my head and reread every email exchange. I smiled at how his words unstitched me. I marvelled at how brazen I had gotten with my words. I beamed at how happy he made me. But none of this took away from the heartache. So I let my words get the better of me and shot him a parting email.
I remembered very fondly our very first long conversation. It comprised DMs, emails and chat messages. I liked the choice of his words. I liked how he made me feel. I missed feeling all that in all our subsequent chats. We were never able to replicate the magic or the intimacy of our first words. And then I stopped trying.
Weeks later, when I finally mustered up the courage to initiate a conversation post the Dear John exchange, and was somewhat past caring, he confessed, “Listen, I understand. Just because I express less, doesn’t mean I’m not getting it.” Those words came as a revelation to me. That’s not who I thought he was. I had always thought of him as being very expressive. Very confident, very comfortable in his skin. But perhaps I didn’t really know who he was. I had asked him on many occasions. Probably pestered him, he’d say. But he never volunteered a response.
Maybe, someday, he’ll share his side of the story with me. Over some wine and a crimson sunset, he’ll respond to all the questions I’ve put to him. But I know I’ve got to be patient. Very patient. Maybe, someday.