Exes in the inbox: Part 11

I've read it all back like a hundred times now, and I still don't know exactly what to think. But I know that this isn't fair. It's not okay for you to pop in and out of my inbox at your leisure without ever making time to listen to me.

I get that you're trying to apologize, and I also assume that you were probably drunk and this was all probably spurned by some tangible event that you haven't told me about, and something came to a head, and then you finally sat down in front of your keyboard. I get it. But if you were really sorry, if you really wanted what's best for me or for me to feel better, or wanted anything for me at all, you'd just leave me alone.

You have to see it from my side: regardless of whatever was actually going on with you, you have to remember that you never really told me about it. From my perspective, you are the guy who told me that you wanted nothing else than to see me again and that you wanted to be with me and that you loved me, and then just basically stopped talking to me for what seemed, to me, to be no reason. And all of this immediately followed two months in which you were my whole world, and then six weeks of me trying to figure out if you even wanted to hear from me because you never had the balls to tell me yourself that you didn't. So this is who you are to me, and now you've written me out of the blue, saying you're so sorry, and trying to explain everything that happened to you, but I have no idea how the fuck you've decided that you--you who behaved the way you did--get to be the one to unload all of this shit on me when I'm the one who should actually have the right to say anything.

Right now I'm sitting on the couch, in the living room, in New Orleans, and I'm sitting exactly where I was sitting last February when I told you that I could fly there, soon, within a couple of weeks, and you said to me that you "dont want [me] to come out here expecting things to be the same as they were." Have you ever thought about that? About how ridiculous you should have felt saying that to me? Your relative silence was the only clue I might have had to what I should and should not expect. The last time we had really spoken you told me "Fuck, dude, all I want is for you to be here. I miss your lips. I miss you. I'll message you when I wake up, like always." And then for weeks you apologized that you were so busy, but you assured me, repeatedly, that that was the only reason we weren't talking so much. No! Everything is fine! I miss you! I've joined a new band, and I'm at work, and I have bronchitis and something came up and something always came up. And I took you at your word, and it felt weird and wrong but I did it anyway. Tell me again about what I should have expected. Go ahead.

I get it. I see how easy all of this would be to rationalize when you weren't here to see me, because you missed seeing me cry for days in this very same New Orleanian living room, and you missed seeing me leaving on a long overland trek to Austin trying to figure out how I was going to try and forget you, and you missed the part where I bought a ticket to Panama hoping that it would work. And it did, it worked, and by the time I had made it up north to Costa Rica and got a job, I had managed to put you behind me. For the most part, anyway.

You messaged me once while I was in Seattle, "hey," you said, and it seemed so foreign and weird that the only reason I could think that you might be messaging me was that something was wrong, and so I asked you as much. You said you were fine, and we traded a few sentences, and then you went silent again. And I assume that you went off and did whatever the fuck it is that you do, but you should know that you left me in a heap on Jenna's couch wondering why you would do this to me, why, after all this time, you'd message me so casually like nothing had happened. I stayed on that couch for most of that day, and sometime that evening I texted my longtime-friend-turned-recent-lover and asked to borrow his car. In the morning, I went to Oregon.

This has always worked like a charm for me. Something goes wrong? Get on a plane. Some boy upsets me? Drive, drive, drive until you forget. But I'm here in NOLA until next month, and I just got back from Austin, and damned if I didn't already scan around for flights out of here--to anywhere--just to get away, for a few days, from this living room in which you keep breaking my heart from afar.

I just can't do this. You can apparently turn me on and off like a light switch, but I have a much harder time. I need you gone. I need you to never, ever contact me again with all of these candy coated apologies and thinly veiled attempts at letting you know you're still interested in me. You can't tell me those things! What do you think? That we're going to date or something? Oh, right. We're going to date each other; except that that's impossible. We're never going to be able to date each other, unless, of course, we go back in time to February when I could have come there. I could have come and stayed for months, and we could have figured out who we were together, but you declined, and that one shot is gone, and now we will never know because I can barely manage to talk to you let alone see you without falling apart all over again just knowing that we're not together. And we're two different nationalities, so let's just say, for shits and giggles, that we can--we can go back in time and date furiously and responsibly--then what? Where the fuck do you think this was headed when our passports bear the insignia of two different nations?

You don't get to have it back. Your great memories of me are gone? It's your own fault, and you don't deserve them, anyway. You fucked up, and you know it, and now you know that it was even worse for me than you thought, but regardless, you don't get to come back into my life and fucking ruin me just because you feel guilty. You don't get to change your memories of us because you acted like a goddamned child; you have to fucking live with it, and you don't get to decide when you're done with me. Make no mistake: you are done with me, because I can't continue on with my life and have it any other way. I can't have you in and out at your discretion; I need you to be one or the other, and nothing in between is ever going to work. At least, not any time near now.

Do you remember me speaking of Vanessa? She was my friend and floormate at The Disco, and she messaged me a bit ago wondering when I was coming back. I told her the end of spring, In November, maybe, just like last year. That's when I'd like to come. And it was easy, then, to think of returning because I had already divorced you from your hometown, but now you've resurfaced in my inbox with all of your lengthy misspelled bullshit and suddenly I don't want to come anywhere near there. And it sucks, because I love it there. And that. That is what you have ruined for me. And I don't know if I can ever forgive someone who made me not want to get on an airplane, let alone one to my favorite continent on earth.

You said, again, that you just wanted us both to be able to look on our time together positively, and I told you that "I meant everything I said and I always gave you the benefit of the doubt. I did everything right, and I feel fine. You don't because you didn't."

I should clarify.

I feel fine that we were together. Were. You in my past tense is just fine with me.

It's everything else I can't handle.

I just can't. I can't, I can't, I can't.

Not that you care about any of this, because you don't. Your reaching out, your shady apologies and your stupid stories were never about me anyway. This has all been about you, and what you've now decided that you need, and I'm just a little part of that. But you'll have to excuse me because the truth is that there's nothing you can say to me to make me believe that you don't deserve to feel every single pang that has crossed your heart of late, and honestly, right now, I don't really give a fuck how you feel.


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