I wonder if
you still think of me. I kind of like to think that you do. Not
because I want you to miss me or anything (actually I totally want
you to miss me). In a weird way, I just want to matter to you. I want
you to care because I cared for so long. I often find myself playing
out different tragic scenarios in my head. You know the ones where I
end up in a coma and you'd rush to my bedside...those. In my
imagination you always save me, which is stupid because in reality
you're the last person I can count on to come to my aide.
I used to
believe in magic and fairy tales. Not the Disney kind, but the real
life kind. Where a boy and a girl could fall in love and overcome all
the shit and just stay in love. Then you happened. Now I wake up and
feel empty. I don't feel like myself. It's like you sucked all the
magic out of me.
I thought I
would be over you by now. Everyone thinks I should be over you by
now. And yet, here I sit, feeling sad and broken. I don’t know why
I write you these letters. I know I’ll never send them and even if
I did I know they would only make you happy because it would confirm
that despite all the bullshit you’ve put me through, I still love
you. I’ve always loved you. I can’t even remember loving anyone
before you and God knows I won’t let myself love anyone now. I just
can’t shake the feeling that you and I are meant to be. I still
think that you do love me, that one day we will be happy together,
that all of this is just the shitty part before the great part.
It’s
either that, or you’re fuckwad and you sincerely enjoy watching me
suffer. I don’t know what to do. I wish I could ask you because in
many ways you’re still my best friend. I would never dare ask you
though. I know the answer would be cruel and painful. Maybe all your
cruel words are the truth. Maybe you don’t love me anymore. Maybe
it’s all in my head and I’m just obsessed with you. But my heart
(or more specifically the part of my brain that controls emotions)
refuses to accept it.
I wish I
was stronger. I wish I was strong enough to just fucking move on
already. To stop answering your phone calls and running to your house
at your beck and call. I know you just use me. I know it’s killing
me to let you use me. I can’t help myself though. I crave it like a
fucking crack fiend. It’s not that the sex is mind-blowing (well
sometimes it is), it’s just the being with you part. The “we’re
still good at this” part. It feels a little like us, or who we used
to be. But you’re using me, I know you’re using me. I also know
that I will continue to let you use me. If you’re a fuckwad then
I’m the idiot in love with the fuckwad and that’s no better.
I keep
going over (quite obsessively I might add) every mistake I made in
our relationship. In my head our story is different. I fight for us.
I move out and go live with you like you once asked me to. I put our
relationship ahead of my own spoiled needs. In my head, we’re
happy. In my head I didn’t fuck things up. Oh how I wish I could
live in my head. Stay suspended forever in that magical alternate
reality, but sure enough when I wake up you’re not there and I hate
it. The real reality sucks.
I don’t
know how much more I can take but I said the same thing last year and
I’m still here. Sad and pathetic. I know that the main reason why
you don’t give a shit is because you know I’m not going anywhere.
You can do as you please and in the end I’ll still be there. It’s
a depressing fucking existence. Maybe this is how it’ll always be.
Maybe I’ll never move on and you’ll just continue to torture me
forever. Fuck. I hope not. Please come back. It’ll be better this
time, I promise.
Love,
Your
pathetic Ex
P.S. You’re
a fuckwad.
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