All these years I’ve been telling myself that the only way to get Andy to step up and fight for me was to show him I was strong enough to move on with someone else. We’re told from the time we’re little girls that the man worthy of our hearts has to fight for us. He’s supposed to slay a dragon, ride his white horse to the castle gates with a dozen roses and a kiss that will awake us from eternal slumber. It turns out that with that logic I was actually sabotaging the very thing I wanted the most… him. He was hurting, and he finally told me. Perhaps it’s a bit sadistic, but a part of me was glad to find out that he was hurt, because it means he cared in the first place; I never knew. I felt in my heart that Andy loved me, but he acted so cool and indifferent. He pretended like he wasn’t bothered by jealousy and so I kept doing it because – who can put their life on hold for someone who’s indifferent?
And now, the irony is that it was my own jealousy that has turned him away from me. It was the green-eyed monster that came out one night after too many cocktails and showed the man I love how completely and utterly insecure I am. And now we should “just be friends” because “it’s not fair to make me wait” for him to “figure things out”. It was “nobody’s fault” it just “is what it is”. And the knife is in my chest and I’m dying a slow death at the hand of too many cliché’s. But not a quick death, no… I bled into the night, having one nightmare after another, waking up crying and distraught and wishing away the pain in my chest.
It was never supposed to be about some grand gesture. It was always just about two people who wanted nothing more than to love and be loved by one another, unconditionally. All I can do now is pray to God that he comes back to me, so that I am not left with this hole in my life where he’s supposed to be. For the first time I actually feel like a piece of me is missing; like I’ve lost my best friend and I’m just not complete without him; and I’m sad, I’m really very sad.
“I don’t know you. The only thing I know about you is, you’re reading this. I don’t know if you’re happy or not; I don’t know whether you’re young or not. I sort of hope you’re young and sad. If you’re old and happy, I can imagine that you’ll smile to yourself when you hear me going, he broke my heart. You’ll remember someone who broke your heart, and you’ll think to yourself, Oh yes, I remember how that feels. But you can’t, you smug old git. Oh you’ll remember feeling sort of pleasantly sad. You might remember listening to music and eating chocolates in your room, or walking along the embankment on your own, wrapped up in a winter coat and feeling lonely and brave. But can you remember how with every mouthful of food it felt like you were biting into your own stomach? Can you remember the taste of red wine as it came back up and into the toilet bowl? Can you remember dreaming every night that you were still together, that he was talking to you gently and touching you, so that every morning when you woke up you had to go through it all over again?”
― Nick Hornby, A Long Way Down