There are violins in every song I listen to. The tempo is slow and the beats are low. I press repeat to each one at least once, but on a couple I repeat them until the tears fall more consistently, or stop all together. Until I think I’m healed enough to go to bed, to dream of something unrelated, to wake up without the question to break my silence first. I’m waiting for the anger to break. and to find some way in without accepting what happened. The music beats into my skull as the earbuds deepen with each push from my fingertips. It’s not loud enough.
It’s never loud enough on nights like this. It hasn’t been loud enough since the night when you threw everything we had away with one lousy last chance at love. “Just stop thinking…” rings in my ears and makes my stomach hurt. There were other ways to express yourself. More thoughts that should have entered your brain; one might have been “Is there another way I can get my point across?”
Let me list some alternative routes:
1. Come out and ask me.
2. Bring it up in a discussion.
3. Ummm, consider anything you know about me and how to get through.
Why wasn’t it good enough to be us, the way we have been forever? To be that one good consistency in my life?
The consistent intelligent and motivating conversations that fed a part of my brain no other person reached. The consistent life requirements such as grocery shopping and mall runs made into a fun game or light-hearted judgments on our eating habits. The breakfast runs at any point in the day only sitting among the elderly and the single dads with their kids on the weekends were consistent too. Even when the distance widened, the friendship stayed.
Your wrongly-calculated move crossed a line between us. A line that I thought we defined long ago and claimed “if it got weird, we’d salvage our friendship because it was so important to us both”. I think you knew it the next day when the text said it – that you had crossed the line. Did you think so when you decided not to reply? What about since then? What about the 4 weeks it’s been… how about one of those days? Two minutes? The consistency is broken. As well as another thing that some may argue I don’t possess in my chest.
I never thought I’d feel betrayed by this one. I honestly thought he’d be the last one to break me open and leave me there bleeding when one word would heal and seal it away. I just don’t get it. I’m not like the other girl nor should be treated like her. You’re still ruining it.
What happened to that date I could count on when a person cancelled on a wedding at the last minute? Who argued with me over dinners at Hickory Park that I would land a great job sooner rather than later because I was that good? And when I got the job before graduation, where’s the guy who just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well of course you did” then went on finishing his dinner? Where is that confidence in me?
Where is the person pushing the cart I rode on down the bread aisle or the one who helped me learn how to choose the right kind of tomato to make my first try at bruscetta? Where’s the guy who’d chat with me before we were even close friends in New York about homesickness?
Where’s that one guy I would have pointed at and said in the most confident voice, “He’s the one who I can count on. He’s the only man I can trust.” Where are you?
“It got weird.” – me
I’m giving up on you.