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.
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.