I keep thinking about it (I really shouldn’t be) and it’s really obvious that the only way I’m not going to feel miserable and depressed is if I try to forget all about it. And I don’t want to do that. But I can see a photo and remember how beautiful she is, or think back to how enamored with one another we were back when we first met. Looking at a particular book series makes me want to throw them all away (she was the character A to my B) and all the smaller memory fragments of delightful times, where I would sit and say to myself “This girl is amazing,” make me want to cry or punch something.
I loved her. I really, truly did. I still do. It hurts me more than anything that she never loved me, can’t ever love me. It took her far too long to tell me, too— all I did was keep falling further and further for her. I don’t understand how all that time and all the shared memories really amounted to nothing.
It was bad in the latter half, I’ll admit that. But that wasn’t all my fault. I tried very hard and did so many little things, and when I got absolutely nothing back, I stopped. It wasn’t making any difference (and obviously it wouldn’t, so it was the right choice) so why bother? But why did the effort have to stop on both ends? Why couldn’t we patch things up? And, most importantly, why couldn’t I be loved?
I remember when I returned to the place I was staying, right after my week-long visit with her. We watched 500 Days of Summer, since I had never seen it. And maybe that was a foreshadowing of sorts, of how everything was going to turn out. I thought about that before, it’s stranger to think about after the fact.
It’s rather selfish, I’m sure, to keep asking “why” over and over, and it’s selfish to get angry and feel miserable for myself, but I think that it’s a very natural state of mind to be in. I’m angry and saddened, I can’t talk to her right now, but I don’t hate her and I don’t think I ever could. I just want to understand why. Why, when I put so much time and passion into things, where I went wrong, what happened. Maybe she wasn’t ready. Maybe I was too eccentric. Or perhaps there was something that neither of us saw that remains a mystery. I don’t know. I probably won’t ever know. That sucks.
But god dammit, I still love her. Still crying. What a way to start the year.