I Miss Who We Were

I’ve been having a lot of trouble lately, remembering who I am now—who you are—now. I find myself listening to songs I would listen to when it was still summer, and I find myself thinking I should text you back. Then I remember I haven’t received a message from you in a month, and I likely never will again.

It’s so hard to remember that things will never go back to the way they were.

I will never again hold your hand, touch your face, run my hands through your hair. I may never even look at you in the flesh again. I find myself seeing pictures of your in my camera role that escaped deletion, and I think, “Wow, you’re cute.”

For a moment, listening to those songs, I forget all of the things you forgot to tell me. I forget how you made me feel when you left. I remember what it feels like to fall asleep on your chest. I remember what it feels like when you slowly push aside my waistband, to graze your fingertips across my hips.

I remember the way your lips feel against mine, and the exact way you would kiss me. I remember it all.

Then I remember what you did to me. How you left me out to dry, without so much as a goodbye. You never even said goodbye. You just disappeared…with her. Then I remember where I am now, who my friends are now; who I drunkenly hooked up with the other night, in some vain attempt to cleanse my system of you, the first and last person I’d ever been with.

I remember the pain I felt in my entire body when you cut me off. It wasn’t just my chest. I felt it in my head, my stomach, my knees; it was as if my whole body was caving in.

Then I remember how far I’ve come, and how I don’t think about you as often as I used to.

And then I realize I haven’t made any progress at all. You’re always on my mind. Sometimes I think about the things I could’ve done to change the ending, or the things I wish I could tell you now. I wish you could see how much pain I’m in, but I also wish that I could show you how happy I am without you.

The sadness, the nostalgia, the missing you… it comes in waves. But so does the happiness, and the forgetting, and the moving-on. Sometimes, I’m glad you’re gone. Other times, I miss the person you were when you loved me.

And then the song changes, and the moment passes. And I finish writing this entry, and I go back to writing my research paper. Because despite how much I miss you when those songs play, I have no choice but to move on.