Yesterday, early in the morning, out of nowhere it came to me that it was an ex-boyfriend’s birthday. My last boyfriend. He actually was not a real boyfriend just someone I was starting to know. The whole experience was not a smooth one, because we lived our “romance” for most of its brief time a Continent apart. And since I am not the best when the subject is keeping in touch via messages, videos, texting… I guess at some point he thought I was losing interest in him. But I was not. I was just being me, the antisocial me, the person who sucks in keeping in touch. Or to keep any relationship, to be fair.
So when we reunited al last, he ditched me. With distance and then words in a message. Still don’t know why exactly, but I let him go. Easily. Not because I was no longer interested in trying but because I realized I didn’t like the version of him that didn’t like me. That simple.
And yet, that hard.
We moved on, in different directions and up to this moment our paths haven’t crossed. And I don’t think it ever will. Because that is what happens every time with me and my relationships. They only last till they last. And when it’s over it doesn’t become something else, just a nothing.
And that is the tuff part for me; this nothing afterwards. Because all my exes or most of them were keepers, men that I would like to keep around, in my life. Not for sex or any romantic innuendo but as a friend or at least someone that somehow would still be part of my life, even if sporadically. To talk, laugh here and there, over a coffee. Or a tea.
It’s not because we are no longer in love or falling in love that we couldn’t keep in touch. At least for me. For them it seems an impossible task. When it’s over it’s like I got a terrible contagious disease and they feel as if they need to be far away from me. As far as they can. It’s a matter of life and death.
Dramatic but true. And that is how endings like that makes me feel. A failure. Worthless. Nothing.
Just someone who never had a bad, sore breakup does believe that the first impressions are the ones that remain. In this case, it’s not. It’s that last sad, ugly, sore memory of that melancholic breakup that will stick with you, that will flavor the whole story with its bitterness, regardless the story you had before it. Because when you look back and recall the story, it’s not the good silly times we had together, the way our conversation flew as if we were best friends for years and years, the way he knew how to put a big smile in my face that will come up. All of it is vanished and what remains is how bitter and sour was that ending. How horrible it made you feel. And it’s impossible not to think that that story deserved a better end. Not necessarily happily ever after, but a much better one. I deserved better. You deserved better. We deserved better.
Would then this and other love stories with bad endings be in vain, I wonder?
It sure does feel like that, but then again love is love. And love, regardless the ending, is never, ever in vain.
Never.
Fab After 47 