I’m Heartbroken That You Didn’t Choose Me

There are days when the memories of our past lie dormant. I manage to fall asleep and wake up without the thought of you plaguing my mind. Some days, it’s as if you never existed at all. I wake up, shower, make a cup of coffee, and begin my daily routine without your memory making an impromptu appearance.

Those are the days I cherish most, because for a few brief moments, I’m not the broken-hearted mess you left behind. Instead, I’m the carefree and animated person I was before the fractures of our failed relationship altered me forever.

For a while, I am whole again.

Then there are days when your memory comes flooding back, and it takes every ounce of strength for me not to fall apart all over again. I think about the little things most. The ease of your arms enveloping around my silhouette in the morning. The way my hand effortlessly rested in yours while we walked. Your cologne lingering on my pillows long after you left.

I miss you so much it physically aches.

Unlike a headache or similar ailment treatable with the appropriate medication, there is no cure for this particular affliction. Trust me, if there was, I’d be first in line to claim it. It’s the kind of pain that lingers long after it’s spread, resulting in irreversible damage throughout the body and mind.

No one warns you about the indefinite agony awaiting you on the doorstep of a broken heart. Instead, they praise the sensation of falling in love, coating it in a saccharine glaze consisting of deceit and impracticality. They use words like “magical” and “euphoric,” as though the experience were a whimsical illustration painted by none other than Monet himself. What is not often discussed are the permanent scars left behind when someone falls out of love with you.

Shouldn’t a heart cease from loving someone the moment it’s broken? How does it continue loving the exact individual who dealt the blow? It’s been over a year, and the stain you left on me has yet to fade. I’m angry, sad, disappointed, and heartbroken.

I’m angry at you for making me love you, then swiftly turning your back on me the moment things became difficult. I’m sad over the future you abandoned so easily, leaving behind an immense void long after you walked out the door. I’m disappointed after discovering you weren’t initially who I thought you were, but an apparition hiding behind the guise of something genuine and honest.

But most of all, I’m heartbroken you didn’t choose me, even though you were my first choice each and every day.

After every compromise and sacrifice I made for you, it still wasn’t enough. After every obstacle and storm we weathered together, it was so easy for you to discard me like the worn-out pair of sneakers gathering dust in the back of your closet. After I countlessly broke off pieces of myself in order to make you whole, you still gave up on us.

So much for being an “effective team.”

And maybe it’s partially my fault. Perhaps I could’ve communicated better or catered more to your ego. Would you have stayed then? Would you have loved me more if I relinquished myself entirely to you, giving up my authority in the process?

I know I’ll eventually get over it, at least, that’s what everyone tells me. It’s possible I’ll meet someone someday who effortlessly transforms my pain into peace and carefully repairs the lacerations left behind by you.

It’s possible this person will continue to love and support me in spite of our differences, instead of running away from them out of fear and cowardice.

And perhaps I’ll even love him in return and be happy. But for now, the remnants of my broken heart lie shattered on the cold, marbled floor, reminding me of a time when I was once happy with you.