“Think how you love me,” she whispered. “I don’t ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember.”
“You’ll always be like this to me.”
“Oh no; but promise me you’ll remember.” Her tears were falling. “I’ll be different, but somewhere lost inside me there’ll always be the person I am tonight.”—Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
“But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.”— Haruki Murakami
I could try and get back at you, make you jealous, or try and get over you to protect myself and to show you what you are missing. I could trade the dignity of our relationship for my pride, I could pretend like I don’t miss you to avoid feeling pain. I could distract myself, spin in endless loops on the little hamster wheel of addiction inside my mind; I could fuck somebody else, I could make somebody else fall in love with me, I could run.
but I don’t think I will. I think I will admit to myself that this is painful, that I miss you, and that I am scared at my increasing indifference, that it is almost comfortable to miss you, just to wrap myself in that delusion, if only for a couple hours. I think I will accept that I feel rejected, sometimes, and lost, and it’s difficult to believe that this too shall pass. and it will, and that breaks my heart, but I think I’ll admit that tonight.