I used to think a relationship ended twice. First, when the relationship is declared finished. And then, when you stop talking for good. But it ends many more times after that. It ends, again, when you can finally sleep without breaking down in tears (I haven't reached this point yet). It ends, again, when they are no longer the first or last thought of the day. It ends, again, when you finally accept that you won't hear from them. It ends, again, when the memories no longer cause you pain. It goes on, and on, and on, all these separate -- yet somehow monumental -- moments after the relationship initially ends. It took me three whole weeks to fall in love, and it's taken eight months, going on nine, to understand that you can love someone with every fiber of your being and still not be meant for them. That you can build a future with someone, with talks of children, and houses and marriage, and still wake up to passive aggressive texts from your roommate when they misinterpret a post that's actually about you, in your two bedroom apartment, where you fell asleep watching horror movies by yourself, into the wee hours of the morning in an effort to feel SOMETHING that wasn't this. I really need a hug, from the ones that understand me best, to know well enough when to touch me and when to leave me be. I'm emotionally exhausted, for the millionth time, over a relationship that should have, realistically, ended a long time ago. I am not yours. I do not belong to you. I'll keep telling myself that while I head back to square one, I guess.
