It was the longest we had been out of touch but I wasn’t missing “us” as yet. “Us” had degenerated into what I’m not sure. I thought I was content with what we shared. Or maybe I wasn’t. I didn’t really know. And I didn’t have it in me to dissect it further.
He was my smile, my solace on a rotten day at work and more. But every evening I packed up those feelings, alongside the laptop, and trudged home. There wasn’t the space to let them out elsewhere.
I referred to him for the first time in a very long time, while talking to a friend last week. And it struck me that I only had good things to say about him, about us, about how you treated indulged me. But his lifestyle was an intentional but subtle reminder of what I’d never have with him.
I remember very fondly the long walks, the long hours on the phone and the lengthy emails. But none of them came remotely close to the feeling of loss I sensed each time we said bye at the end of a long day at work.
I suppose we were both just spent. Of lying. Trying. And forgiving.