I’d been planning it for years. The destination, the excursions, the secret surprises. I had it all mapped out. But that was a plan that included me.
It’s still so difficult for me to imagine you being with someone else. You traveling with another woman, not me. We always traveled together so perfectly. Sure, I packed way too much stuff. But once we hit wherever we were going, we made the absolute most of every minute, made the best of every situation, because we had each other. What else did we need?
I can’t even imagine where you would go. Mexico? Where we shared several trips? Bora? Our dream destination where we’d made so many memories? Hawaii? Come on. After everything we’d seen, Hawaii was amateur. That island in Washington you kept insisting you’d take me to? New Mexico? To see the mother you told me was dead? Maybe to New York, to the aunt you said would adore me. No, I know. It would be somewhere completely different you saw on some YouTube video that someone else told you was cool. That sounds like more your style.
So… where are you going? Who could possibly take my place? How can you enjoy anywhere or anything after what you did to me?
Are you taking her somewhere on the motorcycle you designed for me? Have you completely forgotten that this was supposed to be my trip to plan, to surprise you with? Or, did you decide not to go? I guess I’ll never know.
Because no matter what we meant to each other, no matter how many promises you made me, no matter what plans we had for our future… you seem to have forgotten that I even exist. You seem to forget that half of the things in your apartment are actually mine.
I don’t want to care. I don’t want to even remember your birthday. I definitely don’t want to imagine what you’re doing.
But… here I am, thinking about all of it. Tormenting myself about shit that literally has not one thing to do with my life anymore.
You made your decision. You made it clear. I have no right to even think about you ever again.
But… apparently I do.
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