I’ve spent months letting him take care of me. He licked my wounds and filled up the gaps in me. I was empty, then I was full, then empty again.
He’d kiss me to sleep and kiss me awake. We cuddled for warmth and whispered breaths were exchanged religiously. He smelt like a girl but fucked nothing close to one. We were happy, we were beautiful and we were in love.
‘He’ and ‘we’ were pronouns that hung tightly by my lips. Rarely came an occasion when ‘I’ played a part in our relationship. It reached a point where ‘I’ became irrelevant to what we had. We had what we had formulated on that very principle — that ‘I’ had no part to play.
I think that was the point where we stopped working, when the truth of the matter was that I was losing myself to the one thing I practically breathed on. I had dreams that we didn’t share; I had questions that we didn’t have answers to.
On some level, we both knew we were on a one way street, yet our destinations couldn’t be further apart from each other. The wounds he’d lick started to be the ones he etched, the gaps he filled — the ones he emptied.
The inevitable fallout fell nicely into place across the span of months, and the rest became history. I became history in his, and him, mine. I lost a best friend, my first love—my only love to date, actually—but the one thing I truly, truly lost… was myself.
I lost myself to the vicariousness of the moment, I lost myself in his eyes. I lost myself to his lies, I lost myself in the insanity love evokes. I lost myself to the idea that losing him was all that mattered, and I lost myself to weakness.
I’ve lived, I’ve loved, and I’ve lost.
And the most absurd part of it all, is that I owe him that much.