Happy or content?

I write to remember but also to forget. 

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I have all of these plans about what I would do or say when I run into this man.  I want to be all cool and relaxed, like I don’t care.  When I pull into the garage and see his car, not in a stalking type way but I do work for the same health system, I still get jittery, like maybe I will catch a glimpse of him.  It is ridiculous because after everything we’ve been through, I’m not even sure I want him back.  It’s easy to say, a lot harder to look at someone you were so deeply in love with and turn away.

What makes me crazy is that I know he felt the same way, I could see it and feel it.  You know when you look at someone and you can see deep inside of them and you catch your breath because you are surprised at the intensity of the feeling.  He would say things, nothing like sappy romance novels or movies that we could all write the endings to, just kind things.  He would always check on my feelings, wanting to make sure we were always honest with each other.  We could sit and talk for hours, and I would find him just looking at me.  I would become self-conscious, but he always assured me that he was just memorizing the moment.  Although he was at least six inches taller than me, which I worried that maybe he felt like we didn’t fit, he insisted that our hearts fit and that’s what mattered.

These snippets of our life that I share are sometimes difficult.  I want to say it all, just to mark the space in time, proving to at least myself that what we felt did exist.  When I begin to write, the memories surge forward and I find myself struggling to say anything at all.  I don’t want to love him still.  I want to be the person that can just pretend that it didn’t matter.  It’s been months since our lives unraveled but I still feel the connection.  He lingers a bit too long in passing and I can feel it.  It breaks my heart all over again as do these words.  I write to remember but also to forget.

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