Dreams and Stories
I'm done.
I don't deserve this from you. You don't know what you've put me through, and honestly that's okay. I wouldn't want to bore you with the details.
I really liked you.
And I had dreams about you, and I imagined what it would be like to kiss you. I wanted to ruffle my hands through your hair. I pretended that I was the girl that changes you. And I even pictured us knowing everything about each other. We would be the couple to hold hands and walk through the hallways not giving a damn of what other people say. They'd tell me you were a 'womanizer', a 'player', and I'd have to tell them that I know more about you than they do. End of Story. You would tell me how much you loved me, and I wasn't clingy at all. You would hold me tightly and all of your guy friends will make fun of you for being tied down to me, but you wouldn't care.
But then I'd have some bad dreams too. You would cheat on me, but worse… I'd expect it from you. You would have to move away, and we'd make the most of our time together, and cry at the end. Then there is the fact that I hadn't changed you… That you'd still be the same jerk you always were, and that everything people would say about us would get to you and you'd care about them more than me.
But we never made it there did we?
We never even got to experience that first kiss, that warm embrace, the soft hand-holding, knowing everything about each other.
All we heard was the bickers, and then when I went home, I would picture what would happen if I changed my words around and said something sweet to you. Would you say something sweet back? Would you be kind?
But unfortunately, we never experienced that either.
It wasn't until I ran into you and you began to shout at me saying how I wasn't worthy of your time.
It's funny when you think about it. Each one of your words stings. Usually, I make some witty remark before turning around to have my eyes well up in tears.
The words spilled out of my mouth before I could stop them.
'I'm done.'
And you looked at me with a strange expression on your face because you know that I would've always jumped at the opportunity to snap at you, or maybe it's because my eyes are brimmed with tears again, only this time… in front of you.
You kept the quizzical look on your face, as I realized what I had said.
Was I really done with you? Or did I just want to be done with you?
It was time. Time to let this go, because I couldn't hold onto the false hope of us being together any longer. It was time to give you up. You are an amazing guy. You have the charm, the looks, the personality. And one day you're going to fall in love.
But it's not going to be with me.
And I once heard this song… with a line I distinctly remember. 'Love doesn't hurt, so I know, I'm not falling in love, I'm just falling to pieces.'
'Don't talk to me anymore, Chad. I can't go around this bickering forever.' I told you. Your eyes widened, because you knew what I was talking about. And as I turned to leave, you didn't chase after me like I dreamed. You didn't call my name. You just stood there, staring after me as I walked away from you.
All that's left of you now is a memory. You were a damn good memory, no doubt. But I made a decision that day, Chad. I don't know, if maybe I should have kept on trying or waited for you to make your move.
But I'm not on hold forever. And it was too late. I didn't get that happiness of bickering with you, because over time the words began to hurt. And I didn't want that.
Maybe we would've been that amazing couple walking through the hallways, or maybe we'd be the terrible one that just doesn't last. I wouldn't know. You wouldn't know either. Yes, I didn't get over you right away. But you faded, and I met knew people in my life that were more important than you. That wanted my attention more than you.
Sometimes, I'm a little sorry that you're just a memory and not some major part of my life or first love or anything like that.
But… Sometimes, when you've had enough and you've reached a point where you can't take anymore, it's just better to let go.
