Closure

I'd invited him over so that we could talk— which wasn’t the only thing that I'd tricked myself into believing. 

I'd gone over what it was that I wanted to say to him so many times that I believed myself to be mentally prepared for his arrival, but when I greeted him with a hug at the door his scent alone made me shrink.

I was reminded of all the times I awoke to find myself in his bed— him, fast asleep, and me, awake and regretting everything. As we embraced, the words that I'd so neatly placed on the tip of my tongue scurried to the back of my throat. My lungs wrapped their arms around the words as if to comfort them, but to no avail.

When he finally let go, he took a step back as if to get a better look at me. I smiled, ushered him in and asked if he wanted anything to drink. He said no, but I hurried towards the kitchen anyways, poured myself a glass of whiskey and hurried back.

He jokingly asked, “You an alcoholic now?” I said, "No," took a swig from my glass in an attempt to calm down the sad scene occurring in my throat.

He talked about work and the places he'd recently traveled to. I listened intently and hated myself for trying to calculate if there was any chance of my fitting into his life again, but all of his stories seemed so foreign. Our lives had long since split, but I didn't want to believe it. That's why I’d invited him over— I wanted to see for myself. I thought maybe he'd tell me that he’d thought about me while he was overseas or that when he was in Vegas fucking some other woman, he'd accidentally called her by my name.

Instead, he told me that he was thinking about moving to Seattle because he’d gone recently to visit a friend and the cost of living was great, but most importantly, he felt comfortable there. I smiled and said, "That's dope," and hated myself for knowing what friend he was speaking of without him having to say. I knew that he'd met her in DR and that they'd made a pact to visit each other once they got back to the States. I knew that he thought her beautiful, because she was—I'd seen pictures of her on his Instagram. I knew, but said nothing. I figured he'd forgotten that he told me about her once before and just so happened to have mentioned that she was from Seattle. He was always good at forcing me to put two-and-two together on my own.

I began to want  to die before his eyes then maybe he'd see just how much I loved him, but I knew that such thoughts were foolish and all wrong so instead, after he told me everything and nothing at all, I hugged him at the door and when he was gone I deleted his number.

Not long after, I called my best friend, who helped reassure me that deleting his number was for the best. She said, "You shouldn't be around anyone that makes you want to die," and I couldn't argue with that, but I still cried and hoped that he'd call, but he never calls.

A few weeks later, however, I did receive a text. He’d addressed me by a nickname that only he calls me by so I knew that it was him— the last line read," I hope you’re taking care of yourself," and I laughed until my heart looked up at me like I was insane.