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.