The easy part was walking away. The hard part was admitting that it was all my fault.
Raindrops sparkled under the street lights. The wind cut through my skinny jeans and tank top. You had my jacket. Maybe I should’ve asked for it back, but then it would’ve smelled like you, like designer perfume.
Bright red light spilled down on the sidewalk from the sign above the bar. It was some new place you had wanted to try. Their beer tasted like shit, but that’s not why I left. You didn’t even notice when I walked out. One minute we were ordering drinks, and then you started playing pool with some girl with a nose ring. Your ex had a nose ring.
Standing in the cool rain, I stared back through the window at you. You didn’t even glance towards the bar, towards my empty seat. My whole body shook as I turned away. You would’ve called me overly dramatic, but that wasn’t the first time that happened.
I didn’t cry when I drove home. Or when I deleted your number. You only sent one text: Where’d you go? You ok?
Was it my fault that you didn’t care? Did I not try hard enough?
I typed out long texts to you and then deleted them.
A week later, you called, interrupting my binge watching Star Wars. I let you go to voicemail. When you called again, I turned my phone off. I didn’t look at it again until right before bed. Then I listened to every message. I heard you crying and telling me you loved me. And part of me was relieved that you hurt as much as I did.
Bundled in my blanket on the leather couch, I shoved handfuls of popcorn in my mouth and fell asleep to Star Wars playing. The loud music from the main menu screen woke me in the morning. I checked my phone, convinced the phone calls were a nightmare. They weren’t.
The lump in my throat made it nearly impossible to talk, but I called you anyway. I was prepared to apologize. Somehow I ended up yelling at you.
It took me a month before I could go through your stuff. There wasn’t much. I threw out your toothbrush and some of the presents you gave me. I donated your old t-shirt. You probably tossed my stuff too.
Then I worked my way through our pictures together and the pictures I had of you. I stuffed them into a folder to torture myself with when I was sad.
How much self-pity can one person have? A lot. And that’s when I realized how pathetic I was. That moment, laying in my queen sized bed alone, was my worst. That’s when I knew I was wrong and you were right and I was incapable of functioning in a relationship. I’m sorry.