I don’t know why it has taken me so long to come to terms with it, but now that I’m finally here, I guess I should draw out this feeling of accomplishment for what it’s worth.
God knows why it took me a course in college and three cups of tea to force me to introspect, but I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can look at your face and not want to hide from shame. Thing is, I know for a fact that after all this time, it probably affects me more than you. You’ve already forgiven me. But I haven’t been able to forgive myself.
You were always the better one. You were nice and kind and happy and everything I couldn’t be. No matter how hurt you were, you would always smile. And I’m the exact opposite. I’m not a good person. I get angry, I lash out, I say things I shouldn’t.
And if I’m not reacting, I’m stoic. Because I’m empty inside. I don’t feel. It took me so long to warm up to you, and only because you wore down my patience with your constancy. I never stopped being scared of the possible consequences, but I started pretending that it wouldn’t matter to me. I’m sorry that my reality came crashing down on us and showed me how much of a coward I am.
I’ve been trying to find myself. I want to know who I am – but I’m only eighteen. I’ve lived in a bubble my entire life. I’m still inside one. Because I like it in here. There’s no one crowding my view of the reflective rainbow.
But my bubble’s grown. Just a tiny bit. I used to let my phone die so I wouldn’t have to talk to people. Now I have friends. And it’s not as if my hatred for socialising has lessened, but I’ve learned how to find seconds of joy in the tedium. I still don’t like feelings. They still make me icky all over. But I have a hunch I might stick around longer this time.
I understand now that it’s time to accept myself the way I am. I can look myself in the eye now. When I stare into the mirror, I can say that it’s fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.
I think you’d be proud of me, if I let you know how far I’ve come. You knew me better than most people. I’ve always wondered if that was why you weren’t surprised when I did it. It’s as if you knew I’d walk away someday. As if you expected it every moment we spent together. You were waiting for me to get bored. But then I think again – if you hadn’t let go so easily, would I have stayed?