I knew that I hadn't quite let go. There were messages, letters, a birthday present, songs that still felt relevant that I had to resist sending, calls and promises.
I told my therapist that I wasn't ready to give it up. Not yet, not yet. I wanted to keep the connection, wanted the option to reach out, wanted to know that he was still there. I swore it was just a call every couple of months, that it didn't mean that much. It was harmless.
But it wasn't. Calls could make me spiral, either wrapped up in dreams or anxiety and hollow disappointment. I was putting less, but still too much of myself into our relationship, still holding on to some far off dream of a life together. I needed to break it off.
I thought I had pretty much walked away already. I had put down some firm boundaries, had offered less, accepted less, been given less. We didn't know the intricacies of each others lives, we weren't the first person or even third that we went to with good or bad news, we weren't offering comfort or support.
I didn't realise how much it would fucking hurt.
To move on without him and let him move on without me. No forwarding address provided. No chance of a letter. No waiting, waiting, waiting to see which one of us would cave first and message and ask to speak, no relief at the sound of the other's voice.
I cried a lot as I told him, I cried a lot the next day. A wretched full-body sobbing cry. A shaky jerky can't stop won't stop cry. I was just so sad. And hurt. And scared of this next step alone. Terrified of what I was without this beautiful and wild dream of a life. And I missed him. I miss him. God I miss him. So I cried and cried and cried.
Its been over a year since I left him in the airport, watched him stand and wave as I wound my way through the airport security line. I don't think I let myself believe that would be the last time I would see him. That there would be no next trip, no next time.
Each step away has been my decision. Made necessary by his actions, but it has always been me who has made the final decision. It feels like my responsibility to uphold, to stay away, to stay silent. I know he won't step over the line I've drawn, he has always respected my decisions. So its just my own battle with myself to let it go.
I am letting myself mourn, letting myself be honest about how much this meant to me, letting myself think through memories and sort through photos.
And it will fade, it always does. Its already so much hazier than it was last Summer, the wounds less raw, the colours muted, faces and expressions and touch far away.
It feels strange that this will only be such a small part of my life, when it feels so consuming. This whirlwind thing, this rushing and roaring and a little too hot to touch thing, this meeting in the midst of so much, this longing and wondering and playing and creating and loving, god how we loved.. Transient lovers, always fleeting, always temporary, always so close to the edge, never quite enough, never quite real, but lovers, always.
I needed to let it go. I couldn't risk getting swept up again.
So I'm letting it go.
So I've let it go.
I'm letting it go.
And one day it will be gone.
