Subject line: stitching up open wounds.


worcester, massachusetts.

You are allowed to miss the people who were bullets to you.

As I sit in my car, biting my fingernails down to the lowest possible point, I wonder why I signed up for this again. I told him I wanted to meet and catch up. I told the boy who destroyed me to share the same airspace with me again. To sit three feet across from me and act like what happened between us nine months ago didn’t actual rip me to absolute shreds. I signed up for this, but he agreed to it. Remember that, I thought.

The same familiar smirk shines across his face as he shakes his head when I get out of my car because I drove to the wrong restaurant. He holds the door without hesitation. He tells the hostess, two please, before I even get the chance to speak. It is natural again.

As we sit down to eat, he lets me take the side of the booth that I always want. He lets me order my drink first. And we order the exact same meal. With our steak medium rare. Like always.

We are different now. Our dreams are different too. They always used to intertwine because we always made them. That’s what you do when you have your “happily ever after”. When you date someone from the age of fourteen until nineteen, it becomes your love story. You don’t grow up, you grow up together. It is the story you compare every other thing that might even resemble love to. The thing that you use as a standard because at one point, it was all you ever knew.

I don’t know why I was expecting him to forget everything about me. It was like I was surprised when I realized we could go on and on for hours if the waitress hadn’t asked us three times if we were ready for the bill. There were things he didn’t know. Things that he had to ask about. And it’s sad to say that I felt power in those moments. Power that there were things he finally didn’t know about me. The life I built without him.

Driving home from the restaurant, I think of what to tell everyone. I don’t miss him. I’m so glad we ended the way we did. He’s the asshole he proved himself to be nine months ago. But I stare at my face in the rearview mirror and I feel the pit in my stomach knowing I couldn’t even say those words aloud if I wanted to. As my phone vibrates and his name pops up, I’m scared to even glance. Something along the lines of I had fun. Let’s do this again sometime.

I finally had to come to terms with the fact that as easy as it has been for me to hate him, it was time for me to like him again. And only time will tell what that means.

So yes, you are allowed to miss the people who were bullets to you. But you’re not allowed to let them shoot you again.