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ROCKY START. CHAPTER 8
I saw my ex falling in love in the internet.
We had almost a year broken up and this break up fucked us both. It had been my fault, but she decided to break us up, I guess my plan worked, I just didn't know how much suffering was to come after separating. I'd like to think it was harder on me, but I know I destroyed her, 'she cried herself to sleep' Riley said to me a week after our break up.
I screamed against my pillow until my throat hurt so badly I couldn't talk the next day or take it off with a punching bag until my knuckles were bleeding and the pain from my hands covered the one in my chest. I also cried, I won't lie. Still I refused to admit she was in pain, because I didn't want to live in a world where she couldn't smile or be happy, specially if it was my fault. But I kept repeating to myself 'she's fine', everyday, I wasn't expecting the day I actually saw her happy again was with another man.
I decided to start checking her social media, just out of curiosity, I thought about her regularly and I cared a lot for her, I started to check her Facebook page everyday, trying to keep up with her life.
Their first photograph together was taken at a party.
At least I can assume it was a party from the red Solo cup she held and her tipsy half-smile — the same one I used to tease her about. His fingers were wrapped around her waist and as I stared at my computer screen I tried not to think about how I used to do the same.
Maybe they're just she know him while we were dating?I wonder if they spent the night together.
I'm not allowed to care,I reminded myself. But I did. I slammed my laptop shut. I was done torturing myself for one night. I dreamed about her that night.
It was winter. Dirty snow lined the parking lot of the 7-Eleven where we used to buy our booze from the guy Maya knew in there. As we leaned against the car I could see how she was trembling, her jaw clenched as the cold spreaded through her body.
I exhaled purposefully onto her, my cloud of hot breath drifting towards her.
Like any dreamscape, it wasn't quite right. The plotline didn't make sense. Why were we standing outside rather than walking in? Why were we driving my mother's car instead of mine? Why wasn't she wearing a jacket?
Why were we still together?
She took her hands out of her gloves and put them under my shirt, finding their way to my chest. I winced, but then smiled at her.
"I'm just here to warm your extremities, aren't I?" I said.
"Maybe," she said, grinning.
I woke up cold, searching for her in my bed.
That brief moment after waking was always the worst. That moment when I felt like the dream was reality — like maybe we never broke up at all. That moment when I willed myself back to sleep, wishing nothing more than to return to her hand on my chest. That moment where I remembered so easily what it felt like to love and to be loved that it seemed impossible it wasn't true anymore.
I grabbed my phone from my nightstand and started scrolling through her Twitter. I needed to be with her, in whatever capacity I could. As I read the words on my screen I could hear her voice so clearly. I imagined her laughing at her own joke before posting it and smiled at the thought. I could hear her voice so easily that for a moment my bed didn't feel quite so empty.
Two months after the first one, there was another photo: her and the guy from the party at a baseball game. My stomach twisted as I realized he was destined to become a recurring character in her life. I scrolled through the photos of them together, each holding a drink. I wondered if he liked sports like I was. I wondered if she remarked on the tightness of the player's pants, or discussed the blood alcohol content of the people around her, like she. always did when I took her to other games. I wondered if they were having fun.
Seeing them together, with their easy smiles and full cups, it still didn't register that she had moved on.
I couldn't digest that she could fall in love with someone else while I still loved her. At that point, I didn't understand love could be one-sided like that. I couldn't imagine she told him the things she told me, or looked at him the same way.
I pictured her lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing the dude lying next to her was me. It was easier to imagine she was sleeplessly staring at walls, searching for me in her bed, than to believe the truth: She wasn't thinking of me at all.
The internet told me a lot about him. It told me he was good looking and smart. It told me he was social and he seemed kind. I wanted to hate him, but I couldn't.
He took pictures with children and smiled wholeheartedly in photos. He laughed in a way that seemed authentic.
I looked at his profile and then went back to my own, attempting to step outside of myself and act as an unbiased judge between the two of us. I looked at our profiles and saw all the things we had in common, and all the things we did not. My face was more angular and sharper than his, my hair a little less blonde. My smile didn't come as easily, except in the photos in which I was with her. He volunteered more than I did, but I seemed to get outdoors more. He looked like he came from money, and I looked like I was living like most college students on budgeted grocery lists. We had our differences but we also had our overarching similarities: We both loved our family, our friends, and the same girl.
Months passed and I watched them tag each other in photos and their relationship status change. I cringed as they exchanged banter on Twitter and speculated what their jokes were about. I noticed when he took a photo with her mother. I saw her wearing the necklace I bought her as she stood next to him on a vacation they took together.
I saw their relationship go the places ours had gone and to places it had not.
I wondered if they fought. I wondered if the things she did that annoyed me bothered him in the same way. I wondered how he appreciated her art and if he had more knowledge about it than I did, maybe he could compliment it in a way I never could.
My heart sank lower every insta, every snap, every update, but at least she was happy, she smiled more and I noticed she was painting again, that was my only relief.
I could have stopped looking at any time, but it was addicting. I wanted to know what happened next. I wanted to see if it worked out. Or maybe I wanted to see if it didn't.
Despite my self-inflicted torture, I didn't reach out to her, she had made it very clear.
She reminded me what it felt like to love someone, and I liked that part of myself.
We were both spiraling off in vastly different directions, but I still felt an inexplicable pull towards her. It was nice having her be so accessible, even if she wasn't.
I didn't fancy myself a stalker, though maybe that's what I was — leering through the virtual window of someone else's happy life. I guess I just thought if I could see her on that 13-inch computer screen, then maybe she was still with me in a way, maybe I wasn't alone, maybe I was loved. Maybe she was looking, too.
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