This one may get a little personal, and I’m not entirely sure I’m going to post it. If there was ever a post that I would post, and then chicken out on, it would be this one, but if I don’t write it, I’ll probably go nuts. I’m not looking for advice, sympathy or anything in that neighborhood. It’s just me bearing the tiniest bit of my soul. There are rare occasions when I am physically unable to say the things I am thinking, but I had to get this out into open airspace.
I removed his number from my phone ages ago. Seeing it made the temptation to call too great, and after all, it was over. I couldn’t bear to see his name and not call or text, so it had to go. I haven’t dialed it in two solid years. But when he calls, I know exactly who it is.
And it drives me crazy, because we aren’t who we were. To be fair, if you were to the know the story, you would realize that we never really were who we “were,” so the fact that I still know his ring is like that one tiny pinprick in the corner of my heart I reserved for feelings of this sort. No one wants to be anyone’s fool, after all.
The first ring is always where I say I won’t answer – the moment that I always lie. I answer every time. Somewhere between the time that I press the green button and when the phone makes it to my ear, the ambivalence and even the rightful anger evaporates and is replaced with a smile. A call means he’s okay, and I want him to be okay more than I want to be angry with him. So we chat briefly; pleasantly, because he was once one of the people I loved to chat with the most. He slipped into that difficult role seamlessly. When we hang up, I wish he was there so that I could hug him, or kiss him, or…
Punch him. Because it really didn’t have to be like this. And I forgave him for what he did, but I certainly can’t forget. Forgetting would mean erasing him entirely, and even if he arguably deserves it, I don’t want to. Because even though I don’t love him like that, I do love him. And I’ve got this heart, that still spills over for him, full of everything except the type of trust called for in a romantic relationship. And I can’t trust, because though I remember how I felt the first time he held my hand, I also remember the day he told me the truth. It made me feel as foreign and alienated, as his kiss made me feel loved and welcomed.
I can say that when all is said and done, he has still proved to be a friend, and I know that if I needed him, I could call. I’d just be lying if I didn’t admit that it was weird at times.
There are very few things that I view in black and white – trust is one of those things. The truth of the matter is that if this world were to suddenly become my subjective version of that which is fair, I still would have a form of doubt that has no place in love. And this “fairness” of which I speak, would ultimately be fair to absolutely no one. So I exist in my current reality, which involves me having a tremendous amount of love for someone who did a fucked up thing.
It’s a very cut and dry situation, with cut and dry decisions. We’re not together. We weren’t ever, really. We won’t be. Feelings, are a little more complex, and I’m okay with dealing with the humanity of it.
So I managed to forgive. That other part? I don’t know.