I didn’t think that something could be worse than the anger. But now I think not having any is the worst. I didn’t think anything could be worse than a story that took a wrong turn. But I think not even having the chance to write the story is the worst.
We were short lived. You fit into my life perfectly, like a puzzle piece that finally found its rightful place. You checked off every box: you liked my friends and they liked you. My mother loved you, and my father approved. You made me laugh and put me first. You insisted on walking me from the bus to your front door, because that was the right thing to do. And you were a gentleman even when you broke my heart.
There’s all these what if’s and plans that just trial off in a dot dot dot in my mind. There’s all this potential sitting there, seemingly at my fingertips. There were so many more nights ahead that I was actually looking forward to sleeping next to you. My walls were coming down one by one.
You put a halt to our fast-moving love. Stopped it in its tracks, even though I could see where those tracks would go. We were going to lay down each rung of that track, together. But you pulled the switch at the last minute, and now I don’t know where I am supposed to go. But I will have to go it alone.
We were short lived. A love that was fast and heavy and intense. Now, I’ll never get to see the beauty of what could have been. And that kills me because I really think our tale would have been one to tell.