I real­ize that every time I write about you, it’s just me say­ing that the door’s still open and that I’d take you back in a heart­beat with no ques­tions asked, in case you ever came here again and read the words.

It’s hard to believe I’ve regressed this much. I remem­ber when I had to make a con­scious effort not to think about you. Every. Single. Day. It’s a ridicu­lous con­tra­dic­tion, some­thing that becomes impos­si­ble as soon as you try. Then I flew to Europe, where I hit my low­est point, cause it didn’t feel right that you weren’t shar­ing those Paris nights with me. I had to find strength in myself for the sake of my sur­vival, and after that, I didn’t think about you for days, then weeks, then months.

I was free.

In that time, I met another girl. We dated, and we were close, and I gen­uinely thought we had a future together, and she broke up with me. I don’t think about her at all now. It’s you I go back to again and again. I’ve met other great girls, but you always remain the one that got away. Every ping on my phone makes me won­der if this is the mes­sage I’ve been wait­ing for, cause you’ve thought things over, and you’re ready to start over again. Isn’t that how it’s sup­posed to end? When true love is proven by the one who always waited faith­fully, and that’s what wins her over?

Of course, you never call or write, and I can only guess at why you’re stay­ing away. Is it cause you don’t want to hurt me, or you can’t stand the idea of me, now that I’ve writ­ten so much about this unre­quited love? Is it cause I was the one who stayed away because I couldn’t deal with what was left of our friend­ship? Or is there some other rea­son I haven’t con­sid­ered and likely don’t want to know?

I made an uneasy peace with myself when I real­ized how impos­si­ble it is to com­pletely give up a per­son who played such a big role in my life. You’ve become the divid­ing line in my his­tor­i­cal nar­ra­tive, and my life is now pre or post-Julie. It’s no won­der that I still go back to you, espe­cially in these times when I’ve been feel­ing so unlucky in love.

I would have thought you were gor­geous in your avi­a­tors, and you would have hated the way your hair looked, and I would have been so angry at you for not lov­ing your­self the way I loved you.

But know­ing that doesn’t make it any eas­ier. It’s only nat­ural that I care how you’re doing (and I’m still dev­il­ishly curi­ous), but I avoid vis­it­ing your page or any kind of social media out­let you have, for fear that I’ll see a photo of you embrac­ing a sig­nif­i­cant other, and spon­ta­neously com­bust. I even avoid my own pho­tos, because each one can take me back to a spe­cific day when we were together, only to have that moment taken away from me again when I real­ize how long ago it was.

So here we are. Living in the same city, but worlds away.