Has it ever occured to you that I didn’t leave because I wanted to? That walking out that door hurt me as much as it hurt you, if not more? Just because I’m quiet about my pain doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Just because I left doesn’t mean I decided to give up. You might think I did. You might tell your friends it was why I snuck off at daybreak, leaving nothing behind except for a lipstick stain on my favourite coffee cup to remind you of me. I left because I couldn’t take it anymore, you probably think. Because I was bored, or not patient enough, or simply because I was never the right person for you to begin with. But I can assure you it wasn’t easy for me. It still isn’t. It won’t be for a while. But because I am the one who decided to end things, who chose to leave, everyone assumes I’m fine with it. That I’ve made my peace.
Let me tell you something: I didn’t leave you on a whim, and I didn’t leave because it was easier than staying. Maybe it wasn’t even the right thing to do. But I know it was for the best. I’ve known it for weeks. I’ve sensed it. That we would never work out, not on the long run, and that neither of us would be happy if we held on to something that had been fractured from the very beginning. You probably can’t see it right now. You probably can’t even see it in a month or two. But maybe a couple of years down the road, you’ll understand. And maybe we’ll meet again when we’re a bit older and our lives less chaotic, and I can look you in the eyes and tell you that it was for the best. And that I’m still sorry it had to be that way.
for the best / n.j.
(requested by anon)