Everywhere I looked reminded me of him; of some memory that was so amazing it hurt. It was as if we had an integral understanding of what the other felt even if we didn’t agree, but no amount of understanding could fix my mistake.
I pulled my knees into my chest so that I was curled up in the fetal position. I wanted to yell and scream, but all I could do was sob. How could he look at me like that? How could he still be angry—when all I could feel was a ragged hole in my chest where my heart used to be. It seemed it would be easier to be angry with him than to be miserable with the loneliness that filled everywhere I looked.
Lying in my bed hurt, as it reminded me of him laying his head on my chest as I ran my hands threw his hair and he read me some novel he loved. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, wondering if I squeezed hard enough, would it all go away? The scent his cologne had left on my pillow wafted over me and in an instant I found myself yelling for no reason, ripping the sheets off in anger at my stupidity. I fell into the wall with my sheets shredded half on the bed, half off the bed and ruined. This was my fault. If I had just told him, let him know the truth, things would be different.
I slammed my head back against the wall. I didn’t know the truth anymore because I had wandered around it for so long. I had pushed my past away and let my heart linger with him for too long. It felt as if my heart was stuck somewhere between his classroom and the coffee shop we met in.