It’s not as though deciding that you’d be better off making someone disappear from your life makes it any easier. It’s not as though the façade of moving on can ever be anything more than a façade.
So I still check to see if she’s “online” when I sign into my Gmail account. And I still, well, ask my friends that are her friends if, say, maybe-just-maybe they’ve heard from her. I still think of things I’d like to share with her, times I’d like to pick up the phone and call, songs she’d love to hear. I still see her, too, when I close my eyes—that blue gemstone look she’d give me over the rim of her glasses.
Nothing is sacred anymore. I loved too fiercely, ferociously almost, and so when it ended, little slivers of her poison were left in every part of me. I gave and gave and gave and I’m starting to see how dangerous that can be. But I’m terrified of the notion that in order to find love I have to “play it safe” and not put it all on the line. If I’m not willing to put it all on the line, then why bother?
I’m equally terrified of stubborn independence. I love the freedom I have on Fork Mountain and the flexibility being a stable, single, driven woman affords. But I don’t want my lifestyle to become hostage to that freedom, forsaking the chance to love again if it comes anywhere near the freedoms I have now. There must be some in between and someone who can meet me there.
I could never be with her as she is now. The dream I dreamed and loved that had her in it always had her future self, not the self she maintained day-to-day, but instead the one she always promised she was working toward. That’s not fair to either of us and it wouldn’t have been able to continue in that dichotomy. Long distance breeds a binge mentality. It demands strength but allows only a certain measure of depth and consistency. It’s like being a ghost in your own life.