I rarely think of the one who loved me most, even though she still thinks of me. This isn’t on purpose; it’s a simple case of me meaning more to her than vice versa.
I’ve avoided such an unrequited obsession with my last love. I stopped all contact, cut myself off from anything that’d prevent me from healing or moving on, and I’m proud of myself for having the strength to break such self-destructive habits.
But I can’t hide from my own memories. When touched and inspired so significantly, one can’t help but remain forever changed.
Between the choice of giving things a chance and losing me forever, she chose the latter. So I wonder if she ever thinks of me now, the one who will always have loved her most, or whether I’ve just become another one of the wounded boys who staggered and fell so helplessly against her graces.