(I just need half of my last entry for me to breathe, and I promise I’m getting there. I’m getting there, I swear.)
I have realized in my forceful attempts to stop everything I feel for you are efforts done slightly in vain. They have worked a tad because I no longer choke when your name pops up, or when your eyes would glow equally with your smile. Those are charms that haven’t rubbed off of me, no, but have grown on me. And it is a growth that somehow I could reach, that I somehow made my equal, and perilous as it may seem, I did it. But you could never be a person who does not leave a stain, and believe you me, you have etched in the bottom of my soul something that I myself cannot even understand. You have etched in me something foreign, something unusual, and I can’t figure out why I still hold on to you. And maybe this is why I do.
I wish you knew how it felt like to hold on to something that I can never have, to hold onto a fantasy I long to make happen, when I know that not all dreams turn real. The flame of hope that burns and flickers within me fades with each passing day, because clearly I still hold onto a dream of you and me. A mix of pronouns, nonetheless, but words they are still. You and I are not a still, but a never, and I have to orient myself again with lessons like those. There is a difference between having you and expecting you, because the former is what’s happening now, and the latter is a lesson too hard to imbibe in myself to quit. You are a habit I cannot quit, and for the life of me, you worsen everyday.
This is a quest proven difficult, and holding on to something unreal is worse than letting go of something real. There is a difference between a dream and reality, wherein while both are possibilities, the latter is more likely. You and I are unlikely, and I keep telling myself that. Then why do I still hope and long for you every single day? Hoping you’d hear the cries through my words to have you near me, and I don’t even know why, I can’t even contextualize why I need you in the first place. Is it because of the familiarity you exude, or what I have of you inside my head like a repetitive, broken record playing and playing the words you’ve spoken, the moments we’ve had, and everything else. You are the dream I cannot have, present tense. Had, past tense. I should know the difference. I should know the difference, imperative.
I will let you go, I promise. I will let everything, us, not us, go, in due time. But what can you say to a girl who does not know how to change? What can you say to a girl who wants to move on but can’t? What can you say to me, to break it to me gently that not all dreams come true? How can you tell me you don’t care for me without me shattering into a million pieces, and hearing the glass break, cold on your skin like ice, like the truth? I return and return and return in the hopes that you would break the cycle, the cycle of never you and I.
There is the difference between you and I. You have her, and I– I never had you.