As if Sunday nights weren’t already hard enough. Half a medium pizza and half a bottle of wine done. Season 3 of Gilmore Girls, done.
You left on Wednesday. It’s not like I didn’t know you would. I matched with you the day after you got here, nearly two months ago. And I knew from the very beginning what the deal was. I welcomed it, naively,Â
Here I am three days after you departed, and I am so deeply in my bones, sad. Today was the World Cup final and your country won. Of course you’re a huge soccer fan, Messi fan, and more importantly a fan of where you’re from. And so you got back just in time to celebrate and experience it all with your friends and family. Relish in the glory and the pride. How happy and amazing and beautiful. I mean that, really.
But maybe you should (or really actually shouldn’t) know, that a few thousand miles away..I am just sitting here. With half a pizza and half a bottle of wine down. Inexplicably and unavoidably missing you. I’ve been carrying a heavy sadness with me since the day you told me when you were leaving.Â
And genuinely -- I look back and I don’t know if its just who you are or if you just really didn’t care about me all that much and therefore never showed anything, but I could never tell what you felt about me. Regardless, I want to say that I did care about you. And I did like you. And I do, want you.Â
Maybe it’s because of the state of where I’m at in life that made me attach to you so hard. Maybe it was the way you would hold me at night, when I stayed over in your hotel room. And oh, how it strangely hurts to know I’ll never have a reason to go that hotel again.Â
But fuck, seriously. You held me in a way that made me feel safe and loved. And I know now that that is something I want. From someone. But it can’t be you, can it? You are now just someone that exists in my phone. Someone with whom I strategically open messages from on a semi-irregular basis so as to not seem desperate, and so as to not run out of things to say and risk seeming un-interesting.Â
No, you are no longer someone who holds me the way I want to be held. You are someone from another country many miles away, leading a life I no longer have anything to do with.Â
And I am here, leading my life. Or at least the semblance of one, The shambles of one. Back in the ashen city of my hopes, dreams, and desires. I face myself once again. My solitude. And my yearning.Â
In hindsight, I regret how I foolishly relished in the fact that you were only here for a short time. I had felt secure in knowing I never had to make any commitment. Knowing I could let you go, with no worry. It seemed then, ideal. A safe bet.
Unsurprisingly, now here I am. Missing you. Or at least missing what you gave me. I’m not sure which is which.Â
But if I am to be good, and pursue another person the “right way” next time around, I have to first face a long and lonely road to rebuilding myself. And I’m scared of taking that journey. I’m scared to be alone.Â
For now, I just want to say plainly that I wish you were still here. I felt something for you. I don’t know exactly what it was, but it was something. And thinking about you today, in your country celebrating a momentous and glorious win in the streets with all your people, and imaging you in all that joy... it made me sad. And I selfishly, insecurely, and stupidly wondered if you even thought of me for a second. Or if you miss me a fraction of the amount that I miss you. And I feel that maybe - rather, I feel I surely know- that you do not.Â
Oh and what does it matter anyways? Of course I’ll never confront you about it.
You were here for two months. You were supposed to be temporary, fleeting. A story to tell to a future person. About the Argentinean lover who left before it could be anything real. It was supposed to be fun. And yet, it inevitably left me feeling empty. Once again.Â
That is the story I’m left with. And I don’t very much care to share it with anyone.