The other morning, as I was standing by the kitchen window, he pulled into the driveway on his motorcycle. I busied myself pouring a glass of water, not wanting to be obvious watching him. When I glanced up again, he was pushing his bike into the garage. So simple, but my heart skipped a beat. The way the rising sun's light hit his back, the way he had no idea I was looking.
I think that if he loved me back, that feeling I experienced would have been what others call beautiful. That surge of lust and attraction mixed with a caring so deep, you can feel it down to your toes.
But he doesn't love me back. It's taken him 3 years to realize it, and in the meantime I've waited patiently and full of hope. So when I looked at him out of the window and felt that surge, it was followed closely by pain, resentment, self-hatred, and a saddness that only another with a broken heart can understand.
Tonight I sit here, in his house. It used to be my house too. Now I feel like a visitor. He's not here. I'm wondering if I'll ever be in this house again, sleep in this house again. I'm focusing on the inanimate. The television, his king size pillow top mattress, the blue bedroom walls, the bathroom tile. If I miss these things enough, maybe I won't miss him.
I was in the car earlier, and Michelle Branch came on the radio. It's so silly and corny, but she sang that the last 3 years were just pretend. I'm dreading starting over, and if I could, I'd play pretend for the rest of my life.
No matter how much it would hurt when reality set in.
I guess that's just how I'm feeling right now.