Me

I oscillate on the subject of him about a hundred times every day. Should I talk to him? Should I not? Should I bail from class? Should I stick it out? Should I leave the country and never come back? Should I fake my own death? Should I do it for real? I go through about every emotion possible in that time. I've seen extreme, blood boiling anger, gut wrenching sadness, and quiet contentedness within the space of a single hour. And the only thing that changes is nothing.

That I want someone to love me, someone particular. And he hides. Refuses to even attempt to open his heart to me. As if I might damage it further. Arrest his healing process. Or maybe he just doesn't like me, and he just uses this other woman as an excuse so he won't have to tell me. It seems logical. It also seems hurtful. But I can never tell, because he avoids sharing anything with me. We don't even share chocolates anymore. We used to.

And I realized the other day, while alone in his house, that there are lots of things we never did. Parts of me he never saw. Like the summer me. The one that is relaxed and quiet and doesn't complain about the sunburn, even if it starts to peel. The one that likes to stray from schedules and spend more time outside. The one with tan lines. The one that isn't in school. Summer me.

He never got to meet the me that lets go of everything. Gives everything. Takes nothing. Collects. The comfortable me. The quiet me. The content me. Now he only knows the crying, pleading, pitiful me. The secretive me. The moody me. Which is me, but not really. It is the me with the broken heart.