Words

The most heartbreaking thing in the world is to tell someone to stop loving you. To say those words to someone who you've loved, cherished, dreamed and planned with, feels like taking a sledgehammer to your own chest. Knowing the gravity of your words on them, knowing how it would hurt, even now, to hear them say those words to you, you say them anyway. You say them, knowing that you still love this person, that you will always love this person, and knowing without question that he will never make you happy. That this person will never be your "soul mate." That this person is only your friend because of a shared history of a quarter of your life. You say these words, knowing that this person is right when he says that it's possible that no one will ever love you so completely again. You say them, knowing that you will cry and he will not. You say them, and then you send him off to his life, and then you go home to your tv and your cats, to a bowl of cereal and a sweatshirt and an empty night stretching before you like a black hole.

You say these words, and you hope for the best. You hope that you'll stop feeling so lonely, so empty, so lost. You hope that you'll relearn how to love someone, that you'll rediscover how to trust someone with all of you. You hope that you'll stop being this sad, sad girl who still feels the loss of a limb that was cut off nearly a year ago. You hope that you'll never feel a loss like this again, knowing full well that you undoubtedly will. You hope that you can soon make eye contact with him and feel warmth instead of anger, calm instead of anxiety.

You say these words, and you cry, and you hope, and you go home to your cereal and sweatshirt and cats. You take your shoes off, and you breathe, and in your heart you wish him well. And then you remind yourself that tomorrow is, again, the first day of the rest of your life, and that every moment brings a chance to change your universe.