The two longest rela­tion­ships I’ve ever been in, both bor­der­ing on the two-year mark, were mean­ing­less. I learned a great deal from them, mak­ing them great expe­ri­ences, but in all truth, that can be said about any of the rela­tion­ships I’ve had.

My short­est rela­tion­ship, which nev­er even got into the three month range (and also hap­pened to be with the only girl to break up with me), was the most mean­ing­ful.

And tox­ic.

I should­n’t have been in that rela­tion­ship, and I knew it. It was unhealthy, it was destruc­tive, it was painful. Yet I kept going. I kept apol­o­giz­ing instead of accus­ing, I kept storm­ing with­out releas­ing. Was I weak? Perhaps. Was I in love? More like­ly.

But I was scared most of all.

Scared of giv­ing up a chance for hap­pi­ness, scared of for­ev­er won­der­ing, “what if?”. With lack of choice comes free­dom from regret. It took more strength to push on, know­ing that it would­n’t last, than it would have tak­en to end it myself.

It was­n’t weak­ness. It was deter­mi­na­tion. It was an attempt at per­se­ver­ance. It was an attempt at sto­ic res­ig­na­tion. I knew she was going to end it.

Because I nev­er would.