One year ago tonight she told me she wanted what I wanted: to be together. Or, actually, “together together.” I don’t think she remembers that, because I don’t think she reads this anymore. That’s probably just as well.
It wasn’t true. I understand why it wasn’t and I forgave her a long time ago, but I’ve still spent far too much time wishing I’d had more than a week with her to myself.
She’s going back to school on Friday or Saturday; I won’t see her again before then. She’s got a lot of packing to do. I wanted to see her every day this summer. I saw her about five times.
Most of the stories about girls in my life involve the word “unrequited,” and it has always been to my surprise that this one didn’t. She liked me for a long time–likes me still, I guess. But this one was all about “not enough.”
I’m always surprised by how small she is, when I actually get to touch her. Her waist fits in the crook of one arm. She makes me feel larger than I am, and more clumsy.
For the first time in a year, I won’t see her for over a month. We’ll talk on instant messenger; it’s always been easier that way. That was how she taught me to fall for her, over the course of junior year. That was how she broke up with me, and sent me into a tailspin that only Maria and Audrey were capable of stopping.
A year and four days ago tonight, I kissed her for the first time. An hour ago she kissed me for the last.
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