• It began like what I imagine most romances did. We were friends, we talked and spent so much time together, we understood each other.
    I loved her.
    And for the first time in my life, beyond even my own recognition of why, I told her.
    She said she had to sort her feelings out. I was scared, but held tightly to her assurances that no matter what happened, we would still be friends.
    She loved me back, and I was walking on air. I can't even express how happy it made me that her reaction was similar. We told each everything before, but things that we were unaware of then became noticeable. We told one another everything. We loved, and wanted, and loved feeling loved and wanted. I was hers, and she was mine.
    And then a week after her birthday, it happened.
    In trying to sort out a feud between her and her sister, she had resolved to kill herself that night. She attempted to break up with me, thinking it would make it less painful.
    It took hours, all my begging and pleading, but I coerced a promise from her-- that if nothing else, she would delay her decision.
    The next night, I attempted to talk with her about it. In doing so, I'd done something horrible. I make no excuses, despite whatever justifications I may have held, or may still. I referenced a friend of her's who had killed herself years ago. She was both furious and saddened to say the least, but she calmed down. We made it.
    I didn't expect her to forgive me, not did I deserve forgiveness, but I had gotten it a few days later, with a promise that she would continue living. It was a bridge that I'd seen looming on the horizon for quite a while, and I was glad we had crossed it.
    But next? I would call Catatonia.
    I would receive only a, "K", from almost any and all attempts to communicate. She would bring up a topic, and when I pursued it, become annoyed. On a few occasions, she would remark on what she thought was her lack in attractiveness, and would disagree for naught but, "Who asked you?", snapped back at me.
    I wasn't angry, I was sad. I knew her, she herself had often admitted as much, that often-times I knew her better than she knew herself. I wasn't sad because she hurt me, I was sad because I knew she would believe that she had hurt me, which would only make her sad.
    For weeks, our dialogue consisted of mumblings. Her's, bits and pieces of things that made no sense alone. Mine, concerns, quickly stifled and dismissed by her. It made me nervous, and perpetually more concerned. I told her how I felt, and asked that instead of nothing, that she tell me she didn't want to talk about it. Of course I knew that, but there was still something about her lying to me. She said that she would try for me.
    But it persisted, weeks, and not once had she said it to me. It had happened more prior to my request. I felt like I was being cut out, and I told her that. At the same time, for weeks it was echoing in my head, "This won't work out". Not to say that I didn't love her, but I could see no recovery for the relationship, and to be perfectly honest, I thought it was for the best, a thought that scared me then.
    My attempt to share my feelings with her ended the same way that I then realized it always did. Her, misunderstanding and having taken offence, and me, delivering apologies.
    And it grew worse.
    The week after, every mole hill became a mountain, and I'm not happy to say we ended up fighting quite a bit. At the end of the week, she broke up with me. I was expecting it, and I think on some level I was also preparing for it, detaching.
    And then she came back a few days later, wanting to talk. She didn't want to get back together, and if she did, I would have denied her regardless. She gave her reasons, but I also noticed how conveniently they left holes where the answers to my true questions lay. Things were fine for a few days, we were friends, until I made the mistake of telling her how I felt about something again. This time, I was tired of it. I thought I wasn't trying hard enough, and that may have been true, but by her own admission, she wasn't trying at all. I simply left.
    And she showed up again a few days later, only mildly annoyed. She believed that there was some external reason for my departure, and for the first time, I lied to her, and let her believe that.
    She was talking about herself, when yet again, I wanted to talk to her about something, something of a mini-revelation. For the first time ever, I told her how I felt and it didn't annoy her. Her response however, was unexpected. any and all confusion was cleared up. She never misunderstood a single thing I said, she knew how I meant it and why. I had considered this, but dismissed it for a very good reason-- If she did, then her reactions didn't make any sense. I asked her about this.
    "So? I'm a hypocrite"
    A simple, four word response, but it cleared everything right up, and I left again.
    I didn't like her.
    And then the next day, she came back, convinced that there was yet another external reason for my departure. I talked to her, and I realized something.
    No, I didn't like her, but I still loved her.
    We were talking yet again, but it was only for another day. She began insulting me, jabbing with every subtle splinter she could get a hold of. I didn't mind, but then, I think inadvertantly, she made our relationship the butt end of a joke, and that was it.

    I won't pretend we're still together, I won't pretend that I would even want to be together again, but most importantly, I won't pretend that it meant nothing either. She meant a lot to me, and I meant a lot to her, and to deny that and insult the possibility is beyond my patience. I'm still getting over her, but I'm not going to bury my obstacles in the sand while I hide, as I can only realize she did too often. I worry about her, I hope she's happy and doing great. Somehow at the same time, I want to hold her, and also don't care if I ever see her again. It continually astounds me how one could be both so insecure, and indelibly prideful.
    She meant a lot to me, she holds a special place in my heart, to deny that is foolhardy.
    But as terrible as this might sound.
    Babe, I deserve better.