Rushing, sloshing, thoughts swirling around in my head.
The slight muster of your name falling like raindrops off the tongue of someone near is enough to bring it all back for me.
The sudden panic and anxiety rips through me like a tornado during the hottest day of summer. Dark clouds looming in the air. Preparation for the perfect storm. That’s what you were to me. I just didn’t know it then.
Eleven years later and you still bring out these shattered little pieces you created, existing still within my subconscious — they pull up chairs to sit with each other and reminisce on what they all have in common; you.
I used to feel guilty about thinking of you. I used to worry that maybe somewhere deep down there were still feelings for you. But as I got farther away, and a little bit older, I realized that it wasn’t that at all. Leftover was the remnant feeling of loving you so purely and knowing that you couldn’t love me the same — monsters in closets, under dark beds, and all. I swore to myself I would never do this again.
It was being too young and taking on too much. We didn’t know that our care for each other would lead us to where it did. Instead of leaning into being young and having fun — I would instead end up watching you run. Running, sprinting into other women’s arms, sheets rustled, and lies created as you lay in bed.
You ended up on paths I would never take, but somewhere along each path was a fork, a fork that suddenly lead to one moment with you — years later with the history screaming between us as we have our forced small talk is where we felt all the disconnect. It was then as I walked away, pulling the history, moments shared, and the despair of you as my first love, that I embraced knowing I would be okay, because I had already been left, forgotten, and dismissed.
Eleven years later and somewhere, you’re still there.
