For four years I’ve wondered what it would be like to share my life with someone again. There were many mishaps; many misshapen turns. I. I have crashed and burned so many times. I have fallen hard, and realized that skinned knees were better than broken hearts; that love doesn’t come easy; that just because you think you feel something does not mean the other person feels it, too.
I was deadest on spending the rest of my life alone. I was fine with it. I was tired. To be honest, I did not think much of you before—then you came crashing back into my life, and changed it in more ways than one. From Clementine erasing Joel from her mind, Elvis and Anabelle saving each other, to reading that shady, crazy book—we shared the most profound memories; we laughed, had adventures, started something—whatever it was. Because really, it didn’t have a name for a while. But that didn’t matter.
You often told me how much you loved me. You wrote poems and musings that no one ever did for me, and it scared me. It scared me because I knew that if I gave my heart away, I would give all of it.
But isn’t that what love’s supposed to be about? Or so they say.
For years, I thought life was just going to be the way it was—mornings spent alone, watching endless movies and television shows, going to bed late, late at night with no hand to hold.
I was filled with lies, and I consumed them. I lived in them. I became a huge walking lie until one day, we both decided it had to end. It was not easy, but it was our choice.
It was far, far from my fairytale. But it was our story. And I liked it that way.
We had fun—and that would be an understatement.
Late nights in the city, the rain on our faces, our bodies drenched but our hearts happy. Days walking in the park, under the trees, under the stars. All those dreams we shared. All the memories we made.
I was so used to being alone, but then I realized there’s warmth that stuffed bears and bunnies wouldn’t give. There’s a certain kind of happiness that comes from laying next to the one you love, even when you just hold hands and listen to your own breaths; the kind that makes you want to stay in bed. The kind that makes you realize what home is.
They say that when love is good, it is magic. And it’s true: days become better, nights no longer feel lonely. You have someone who’s your other half, not because both of you are broken, but because you’re whole enough to share your life with someone else. And that in itself is magical—more than any other magic can bring.
We built our own furry family, we tried to enjoy life with whatever we had.
We were living our life, and we thought that was enough.
There comes a time in relationships when you begin to question things. You wonder who started it all; you wonder if it matters; you wonder if this is what it’s supposed to be. It happens. It cannot be helped.
I was used to being alone, so I had to struggle being surrounded by people all the time. At times you think I didn’t try. But I did. But like most of the things in my life, it just wouldn’t fit. But you did, no matter how different we are—and would always be. Some things just would not change.
From all our happy days stemmed days when fights and arguments became prevalent. When tears do not seem enough to convey the pain; when shouts and screams don’t seem enough to end the noise inside.
There are days when I know we’re both confused. Is it possible that you still love each other when there are days that you just want to end it? Or is it just in your head?
They say that love is not always enough. And it’s true.
Love isn’t always enough to cover certain things that hurt. Love is not always enough to let each day pass by.
But then again…do you really wish for the alternative?
Four years tomorrow. Four years now.
Sometimes, you do not even feel the years anymore.
Nothing is perfect, of this I am sure.
Sometimes, I would sit and wonder exactly when things have changed, because I know I have. And you have, too. It makes me wonder about that first year, when we were both so positive; when no matter how I’ve seen the harsh realities of life, my idealism was still there.
You often tell me that you miss that person; the person I used to be.
What I don’t tell you is that I miss the part of the person you were, too. What I don’t tell you is that I miss the person I’ve been, too. I don’t know where she went, but I believe she’s still there.
I miss who we’ve been.
Because relationships are one thing—but love is another.
Nothing worthwhile is ever easy, they say. So take my hand. Let’s not fail.