It’s hard. One day, you’re sitting around and it crashes into you – crashes through you. It makes you feel ecstatic; you sit beside the open window, your hands folded on the sill and stare up at the stars, smiling to yourself. “He really did love me.” Euphoria is only a breath away. But then you realize what it is that you’ve lost. The insecurity, the feeling of regaining control over your life, over your feelings, it no longer seems enough. The loss doesn’t cripple you, not anymore, not since you let it cripple you last, all those years ago. But it crashes through you, a barrage of what-ifs and I-wishes, dooming you to a life of doubt. Or at least, that’s what your melodramatic conscience makes you think.
But then, would I have really ever believed that he was hopelessly in love with me then? At that stage, when he’d left, no matter what Sam said or how many times she’d said it, I didn’t believe her. After all, abandonment or the feeling of it at that hormonal stage had debilitated and warped my views so much that I couldn’t believe it. So, would it change anything? Could I change anything? Did I truly lose the shot at true love or was it inevitable? After all, I’m healthy now and he’s all I’ve ever wanted, he possesses every trait I knew The One would have. But he’s not him. That one inexcusable fact makes everything else almost redundant. But is everything else redundant? And although I’m not in love with him, I love him with every cell in my heart. He took my pieces and put them together and although I’m not complete, I am Whole. And I wasn’t Whole for a long time. And I don’t want to waste myself doubting the certainty with which I love him. I know he’s not in love with me either, but then what do I really know after all? I never believed that he loved me then.