My friend leaned over the table, smiling at me, “If someone turned up to your wedding and said they objected. If they, you know - did the Shrek entrance… who would they be?”
I hesitated a moment too long, just a moment before laughing it off and saying, “oh, no one obviously.” But there was someone. A moment of a someone. That was what we were to each-other. Moments. From the moment we met as twelve-year olds, we had stolen moments together. Emails, letters, stories, texts, visits, moments. Never long enough to seem real, yet the moments collected into a knot around my heart to painfully squeeze it. I had loved him as I have loved no other.
“You hesitated!” My friend laughed, her eyes rounding.
“No, I didn’t.”
But I had.
That night I wrote him a letter and sent it off to the address I had sent his last birthday card to two years previously. “I don’t expect you to come – but I would love you to.” Was I trying to restroke fires best left blanketed? Or a moment of communication – our moment?
Weeks later and he sent through a tight, controlled, unfeeling text to my phone - and a number I didn't know he knew, “Thankyou for your invitation but I’ve moved on and I think you should do the same.”
I don’t know what I expected – but it cut me into bloody pieces. I wept, not realizing the extent the hurt had traveled inside of me. Burrowed me out and left me aching.
I was supposed to be the happiest person in the world. I was getting married to a man who loved me with his whole heart, I had a loving family, a promising future.
But this stone-cold response burned me as though he had pressed ice against my flesh. Some part of me, some insistent, hurting part of me missed our moments more than anything else.
Was he happy for me? Did he miss me? Why did I care?
Our moments were not enough to sustain a relationship – but they had always been pockets of security, love, acceptance.
What would he think when my wedding photos appeared? If he wanted to, he could find a way to see them. Would he see my face and feel anything? Would he remember our conversation so long ago, "...if I don't marry anyone by 30, then I'll marry you!" Would he care? Would he think I looked pretty in white?
WHY DID I CARE?!
How my soul missed him. I wondered if I had damaged him to an extent I couldn’t say sorry. I wondered if he had truly moved on. From what? My friendship? My love?
I had not chosen him. I had not chosen him over and over again through so many years. We were worlds and interests and futures apart. I loved him, but not the way he loved me. I loved him – but I didn’t want to be with him.
I wanted my best friend. But he didn’t want that. He had wanted more - if I had known he would walk out of my life... would I have given it to him? 662Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0UUcv0VH1c
I don't know.
We weren’t a stretching sunset, but a vacation for two young souls. I just hadn't known there was an expiry date.
I don’t know if I will ever move on. But I will love him the way old ladies fawn over black and white photos of the past. The way my heart twinges when I remember his laugh, his smile.
I truly hope he was happy for me.
Even if happy wasn't him anymore.662Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1XDQBCZCym
Inspiration: "Stone Cold" by Demi Lovato
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