Him and me. We never were a thing, not really. 7 months. Secretly, I’d refer to him as my boyfriend, well only to strangers at least, but he wasn’t. And now we’re over. We never had a title and yet now we’re not even untitled – no ex-so and so – nothing.
It’s funny when you know something needs to end and should end, but you do everything you can to keep it going, even if it means lying to yourself. Just for a little longer you say. I’m young what does it matter you tell yourself. Maybe it doesn’t.
It ended because he wouldn’t give me more and I got sick of expecting less. The worst way to end an undefined thing has got to be because the other person doesn’t care enough to define it. He “feels like an asshole” because he can’t like you as much as you like him, as much as you need him to like you. You feel he is an asshole, but mostly for saying that – actually you’re almost certain of it.
And then you’re left grieving a relationship that never was. It’s similar to most other breakups, I would assume. You delete his contact, but make sure to write it down in a secret notebook in case you change your mind about taking the high road and decide to send him an angry, desperate text. Something that would make him feel really bad for everything – but not bad enough to change his mind. You even think about the way he will tell others about it. He’ll say he felt bad that he couldn’t give you more and you immediately hate how cocky it sounds and wish you could have prevented any of those feelings at all.
You get rid of anything that reminds you of him and try an avoid looking at your phone for texts that will not be coming. You were so used to knowing everything he did throughout the day, how he felt about his parents, his financial troubles, but not anymore.
You even tell yourself you need to wash your sheets, but give yourself a day or two to bask in his scent before erasing it forever – well that and you hate doing laundry.
And then you go out. You go out with your friends, get drunk, and look for someone else. Someone safe. Someone temporary. Not seven months temporary – just temporary.
And maybe in a month he and that period of my life will be as trivial as the time he’ll spend grieving me. That’s what you told me right? In a month I won’t be upset? It annoys me you think that’s how long I’d grieve our non-existent relationship. It annoys me even more that you’re probably right.
