When I broke up with you

I didn't know what you were wearing. I didn't get to see your reaction, see your eyes part from mine, or even hear the change of tone in your voice. You denied all my calls for a few days and in the back of my mind I knew you were pushing me out, just like you had when you first broke my heart - when I  reluctantly pulled the truth out of you. It took months to get over that one night, but I was no longer that girl. I became bold and courageous to never be a doormat to anyone's feet, including yours, even when it was hard to not sway into self-pity. This must be my fault. Nevertheless, a few years later you moved back to California and we decided to no longer be so distant. At least I thought. Only a few days had already built up all the nerve I never let go and being misled that it would be different this time.

I decided to attend my friend’s party. She was selling a collaborative of items she made from scratch. Cela joined me and I let you know through a text of my whereabouts, even though I didn’t know yours. It had been months since I'd seen Emily’s face. As far as I knew, we lived completely different lives, but it always reminisced back to Jr. High (where we first met) that kept our kindred spirits aligned. It was nice to see her wide smile while I could barely manage a smirk. Not to be distracted by your ghostly presence, I kept my phone in my purse and mulled into all the conversations that haven’t happened in months between her and I. It was going rather well until she asked, “So how’s Sylvia?” It hadn’t occurred to me this would be asked. I had forgot Emily knew me long enough to have known Sylvia. It took my heart by surprise when the water in my eyes answered her question. When Sylvia passed away I didn’t cry. I came home from working at a pizza restaurant with new scars on my arms from the oven. My mom had phoned me during my last hour at work to tell me to come straight home. I knew then it was bad news. Once I arrived home the person who was most scarred was my father. He drunkenly murmured to me that Sylvia took her life and how he hated God for doing such a thing. By then I wasn’t sure of God, nor still unsure, but I knew to not blame a God for people’s actions. It was simply, yet roughly, her choice. I looked at Emily and while I didn’t expect to cry, or be overwhelmed by the thought, I explained what had happened. Frozen by my words, guests arrived to put the right energy back in place. This was a party, after all. It hadn’t eased my mind and I thought of the one person I wanted to call (my boyfriend) but realized I wasn’t part of his life the way I grieved for. After many missed calls from me, and ignored texts, I sent the last one I could possibly manage. How can we share happiness if we can’t share pain? “I don’t think we should be together.” Something along those lines, I had sent. Sad that it had to be delivered in a  hostile way, dishonoring our years of a fickle relationship. But I knew I was right when you instantly replied saying, “ok.”