Maybe you have called all girls since me Honeybear.
I can’t fool myself and pretend there haven’t been others who carved initials into your heart. I’m sure you’ve looked at them the same. I’m sure you’ve kissed them with the same full mouth. I can see you at your piano, writing them songs, singing them truths.
But I want to believe it hasn’t been like me. I want to believe when a song called “I Love You, Honeybear” starts playing on Spotify out of nowhere, it means something. That being unable to stop playing it means something.
There are things I promise you I won’t write about. But I don’t know how to not write about you these days. I reread texts and open up our box. I never threw it out. It’s there. The letters, the cards, the promises we both were so sure we’d keep. I even brought it to Los Angeles with me.
For so long, I wasted my time writing about other people. Pining and convincing myself I was heartbroken and distraught from others. Almost relationships and failed somethings. Maybe I was distracting myself. Have I just been convincing myself? Trying everything I can to prove I made the right decision?
Because at the end of the day, you tried to make it right again. You reached out, more than once, and I said no.
So I swallow my own tears and believe it’s my fault. Because maybe it is.
I thought we’d end up together.
In my darkest and most honest hours, I still do. You are still the only boy my mom asks about. The one she casually mentions, “Awww, he’s like ____” when we watch a TV show and there is a kind ex-boyfriend. You know, the character we root for. He is someone the main character still loves. And he loves her. They keep circling. This Ross and Rachel – will they, won’t they? When will they? That’s when she casually says, “look. it’s you. it’s ____”
This is all a game of what if and nostalgia, falling asleep looking at pictures of us. How in love we were. That it never has felt quite like that again. Yes, I’ve been with people.
But it’s never been quite like you.
The last time we spoke, we had a sickening pause before saying goodnight. It was the space we were used to saying “I love you” in. And truthfully, I don’t believe it was simply muscle memory.
You called me a few nights later and I didn’t pick up.
I wrote you an email. You didn’t respond.
We’re both just trying to say something, but never know how we should start.
Maybe this is me, with trembling fingers and voice much softer than usual. Maybe this is me, just trying to start.
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