I’m just really confused, I guess. Like I really don’t understand what happened. Last week you say you love me. You don’t mean it that way, I know, but it shows an affection nonetheless. Because you did have love for me. Jumpcut to yesterday and you scream for me not to ever touch you when I try to tap your shoulder. There was such revulsion in your voice and in your eyes. When did it sour? What did I do to change that love into what feels like hate or, even worse, indifference? I knew we were never going to be together. I’m an idiot, but I’m not a moron. I’m not crazy enough to think that someone like you would ever want to be with someone like me. But you did like me. I know you did. And you did care for me. Or at least I thought you did. I really did. I really thought I was someone important to you. I really thought I mattered to you. But now you say we shouldn’t be friends. I can’t talk to you anymore. And I guess that’s fine. I mean, if that’s what you want I can’t make you change your mind. I won’t try to push you on it. I’ll just leave you alone. I’ll just leave you alone. That’s depressing. It makes me sound like a creep. But I’m not a creep, just insecure. And weird. And funny. And nerdy. And a week ago you loved that. I wish I knew what changed. I wish I could stop blaming myself. I wish you would talk to me…

Relationships, no matter what form they take, hurt. They always hurt. And they keep hurting. The kind of hurt you never get used to. This isn’t some “Oh my leg hurts okay it’s numb now whatever”. This is “I put my hand in a fire and it hurt and it’s going to keep hurting for a long time and every time I get near that same heat again it’s going to hurt again”. See, I’ve got all these insecurities, right? Most of which, we all have. “Do people like me? Do people care about me? What if I care about them more than they care about me?” And so on. The thing is, every single time I’m proven to be on the wrong side of my own ego. I’m wrong. “People don’t like me. How could they care about me? Of course she doesn’t love you like you love her!” And it burns. It hurts. I actually get it in my head that maybe one day I might be happy, but the wool is pulled away from my eyes and the rug made of mixed-metaphors and optimism is pulled out from under me. And I’m alone again. And I always was, I just didn’t know it.

The worst part of all of this is moving on. Because none of us ever truly move on from anything. What we’ve done is what we are. What we are is flawed. And insecure. And rejected. And broken. And beaten up. And abused. And abandoned. And everything that’s ever happened to each and every one of us, and there’s nothing we can do about it. We are who we are. Sure, you can try to change yourself through outside forces, but inside, in your mind, you’ll always remember your first heartbreak. And the next one. And the next one. And so on for however long you live. 

And it changes you. Twists you into something you hate. You become cold, shut everyone out. You can’t get hurt if you don’t let them in. They can’t get to you in there. But then they smile, and a crack forms in your walls. And that’s all it takes for the whole thing to come crumbling down and you find yourself standing there as a newborn, raw and untouched. Open to the possibility of happiness.

But you’re scared. You’ve been taught to expect heartache. You’ve been raised to expect abandonment. You’re insecure. No matter how good things might be they can never be good enough that you might feel safe. Because once you feel safe it all falls apart. And you’re left alone to build it back up again. Into a wall.

Until a wildfire comes to burn it all down again.