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I haven't written in a while.

Not in my diary. Not in a blog. 

You see, I'm afraid of what will come out when I don't have a 280 character limit. I'm afraid of the torrential outpouring of words and tears and unprocessed hurt. The ache never really left; would it ever? Despite my swinging between overanalyzing and completely ignoring this, I don't think this is something that'd go away.

I don't work that way. 

I guess we all have a tendency to keep what's familiar near to ourselves. The ache is familiar, the pain even more so. The unbearable longing. The terrible sensation of your heart falling all the way down to your feet. The growing ball of something hard and unyielding rising from chest to throat and staying there like a reluctant mother leaving her firstborn at the hands of witches. 

I want to forget. I want to move on. I want nothing of this ache and pain and want and please say you want me back. I want to forget you and us and all the places you touched and kissed and whispered against. I want to be able to go to movies and not remember how you watched me instead and the closed-lipped kisses you pressed into my hair. I want to go to the sea and watch the waves instead of feeling the weight of your hand on the dip of my waist. To lie in bed and not feel your breath ghosting across my cheek, your stubble against my neck, your teeth against my lips. To watch the morning sun rise behind the curtains and not feel your warmth lining my back. 

I want to forget. 

But do I really?

You brought me into this world I've only heard of. I chose to love, and I chose the risk of hurt, and now I've got to live with the aches and pains that came with overexerting unused muscles. 

I guess I don't really want to forget. I want to look back at this chapter of my life and smile at the sadness and the happiness and the joy of discovering that all the rumours and myths of love was true. I want to know with certainty that I was capable of love despite knowing that you don't love me the way I wanted you to; that I was able to love unconditionally. I want to remember the impossible swell of feelings when you kissed me, that wordless contentment of being at your side, the simple wholesome happiness of watching the rise and fall of your chest in the dark early hours of dawn. I want to remember the novelty of feeling happy just because you are. I want to remember all that, even as they begin to fade now. I want to remember how good it felt to be accepted so completely. I want to remember how it felt to be cherished, and how it felt to give in to lust. 

Because if it never happened again, at least I had this. With all the aching dullness that shadows every breath and heartbeat, it was worth it. 

Is it, though?

There are days when everything was worth it, and I am okay with how things turned out, and accepts that people leave when they want to, and you can't hold on to someone who wants to leave or doesn't want to stay. When I'm okay with closing the chapter. Days when I look at us and understand that you were there to teach me something, and that you left because there was nothing more you could give me or teach me. Days when I can accept, with an undercurrent of sadness, that we were simply not meant to last. That you were here with me to show me that the kind of love I want is possible and not just me being unrealistic. That you came when you did and left when you did, that maybe you didn't love me that much but that's okay.  

But then there are days when I question. If this pain that came hand in hand was worth it. If I'd ever get over this. What if the love I want is truly unrealistic in the long run? That I was being foolish for believing something like this could last. There are dark days when I wonder if  I was simply a convenient warm body, willing and easy, when I wonder if the affection I received was a trick to get me where he wanted me. When I feel used and dirty, and lied to and tricked. When I feel like I'll never get out of this deep dark bottomless pit where I keep falling and falling and never hitting the ground. At least if I hit the ground there'd be an end; a painful one, but still an end. Instead, all I get is the lump in the throat waiting forever for something, something, to stop this ache. 

And then there are days when all I do is long for you. And these days are the worst, because all I do is pick at the scabbing sore and making it hurt, because pain is better than numb, and because I'm forgetting to hurt. Digging at healing flesh because pain makes it real, reminds me that what I felt was real, and that my pain is warranted because I don't want to forget why I had to hurt. I don't want to forget us. I don't want to forget your silly shimmy and your stupid quips and your ridiculous comebacks and your way with words and the depth you try to hide sometimes but still bubbles out.  

each of these days is a shadow of us. 

They asked me if I loved you. I don't know. What does it mean to love? How does it feel to love? All I know is I wanted you with a ferocity that scared me, but at the same time worry about the same ferocity driving you away. (It did.) All I know is I held you with a tenderness that surprised me, but at the same time worry that my tender grip wouldn't hold you where I wanted you to be. (It didn't.) All I know is I feared losing you, so much. 

(I did.)

And then they asked me if you loved me. 

Did you?