Maybe this is me moving on.
Maybe this is me finally taking off the rose-tinted glasses and seeing our relationship for what it truly was. Attachment. You, loving me only because I was in front of you, and me, loving you only out of fear of losing you. You, with one foot out the door, and me, stepping through the frame as if I had no other choice.
But I see it all clearly now, how I did have the choice to let you go. I couldn’t bear the idea of being the first to leave, but I also couldn’t bear the idea of you leaving first, too. So I stayed until life got in the way — as it always does. I accepted the little love you were willing to give, not realizing how truly little it was, not realizing how I deserved so much more than that.
Maybe this is me feeling sorry for myself. Maybe this is me trying to understand why I believed your love was this tender, forever thing when it was simply soft and cold, why I never asked for more, why I feared being too needy, too much, not enough.
Maybe this is me finally understanding that sometimes love doesn’t happen for two people, no matter how badly you want it to. I am accepting the fact that sometimes the love you want isn’t the love you deserve or the love you need.
Maybe this is me grieving and finding my own closure. I am letting go of every moment I shared with you and tucking it away to become a distant memory. Maybe moving on is me trying to make sense of our togetherness and our parting and how sad it all was, till the very end.