What do you mean the feast is over? I just sat down. Everyone else has had their fill, so why can't I?
...and why is my face flushed?
What do you mean the dance is over? I just put my shoes on.
...and why does my chest feel so tight?
What do you mean the show is over? I just got here.
...and why do my eyes sting?
I've spoken often of my 90-day pattern. Days 1-30, more fun than anything. Days 31-60, things start winding down, and annoyance begins creeping in. Days 61-75, annoyance moves front and center, mercilessly crushing fascination, infatuation, and giddiness in its wake. I inadvertently start poking holes into what was previously a good thing. Day 85, and I've looked for every excuse, no matter how flimsy, to jump ship. By day 90, things are 100 percent over.
It never fails.
But this time, I wasn't looking for an out. I poked no holes. I didn't self-sabotage, though I had to remind myself not to. Things felt different this time: stronger, mutual, more real. I didn't want to admit it, but the truth was undeniable: I fell, and I fell hard. Very hard. Through an unfathomably difficult 4 week stretch, I worried we wouldn't last, but prayed silently that we would. And we did. I looked forward to every time I saw him. The sound of his voice never failed to put a smile on my face. Every time I doubted his intentions, the universe would correct itself, and out of the blue, a reach would appear. "Just thinking about you," he'd say. "Thought you might like this."
And this evening, I smack myself in the head for allowing myself to feel that way. I know better. I've always known better. I'm just that sort of level-headed: I know I don't deserve love. I know my life is not fair. I know I'll never be happy in a relationship. I knew all that going in, yet I allowed myself to forget it all anyway. And now that the inevitable has come to pass, I hate myself even more for having believed, even for a second, that I could ever truly be happy.
I should have never gotten emotionally involved. I should have never allowed myself to care. I should have never confided, laughed, or shared. So many stringent rules a cautious person should have adhered to, and in my bliss-blinded folly, I defied every last one.
And just as one might have predicted, it all came crashing down. It hasn't hit the floor yet, but in 24 days it will. I curse the calendar. I curse the clocks. I curse time itself for being so goddamned inflexible.
But most of all, I curse myself for foolishly succumbing to the sweetness, the seductiveness, the siren song of so-called love.
And so the countdown begins. My hands hurt. My head hurts. My eyes hurt. But I need to let it out. I need to purge my body of these feelings, as sadness alone is too much for me to bear. As I write, I try my damnedest to exorcise the heartbreak, hoping against hope that the pain transfers. I desperately want to stop hurting. I type through the tears in a vain attempt at therapy. Heavy droplets fall onto the keys as I fumble my words. I try to regain composure but it's too much to bear. I dissolve into a puddle of potent grief, and my sadness echoes off the walls surrounding me.
I am, and always will be... alone again. Naturally.
24 days.
24 nights until my heart breaks anew.
I don't know how much heart I'll have left by then.
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