You made me decide that romance is not worth it. My lust for life is gone. My passionate longing for achievement and accomplishment has turned into a laborer's reluctant dread. I've been in denial for so long that my youthful zest is gone and never to return, and this denial was strengthened by all the beautiful illusions and delusion we crafted together during the twoish months of our friendship and Love.
I want you to want me, but you don't. I thought we wanted the same things out of life, and we understood each other, but we don't. You do not understand me, and you did a great job at making me think you did.
I know I said that what you want is a guy who is a cross between a spineless bitch who never attempts to correct or lead you and a personalityless boyfriend robot who matches all your gifts and love notes and gives you (somehow) even more time and energy and emotional support than I gave you in order to reassure you that he's invested and not gonna do what your dad did to your mom. But in my darker moments I start to think that I'm wrong on this, and what you need is someone who is simply more of a man (just like I need someone who is more of a woman). The problems of you rejecting all my advice and getting overly needy wouldn't continually arise if I was simply a man, that ideal blank and stoic vessel who never sheds a tear and has a comfortable six-figure annual outcome and gives many fucks what his credit score is. I'm not that and probably never will be; I have my own metric of success and though you have changed me and made me more of a man it's probably too late to ever become the one I'm supposed to be for you, and for this fake and gay society we live in.
God, this sucks. So much. I miss you and want what we had back. Spring break forever. The stars, the swings, the lunches, the kisses, the drama, the tears, the smiles. It was better then, even the hard parts had a gorgeous bittersweetness. But it was an illusion, and one I admit I took a part in mischievously and even deviously crafting. I didn't tell you I was 31—but to be fair you almost never tell anyone you're 18. It's always "I'm a junior" or "I graduate next year." You know you don't have to do that? In fact, people will be more impressed by your intelligence and energy if you're open about your real age. As for me, I haven't got a good reaction being honest about my age since leaving undergrad.
******
One of the worst things about breakups is how cliché you become. Every explanation you make to someone in person, you can only express yourself in rote phrases that have such depth to you and will sound so tired and overhashed to everyone else. Trying to properly answer the questions of "what happened," I feel like a retard in the last half of a frustrating dream, where you start feeling unable to perform basic functions right before you wake up—"we had a fight about the dumbest thing . . . she's too immature for me . . . I couldn't be the man she needed" I fumble out; and this is not at all an issue for her, the Certified Professional Yapper, who can just emote and expound monologues of wild inventiveness and overexaggerated detail of my meanness, ignorance, and unlovingness that are between 50-95% examples of textbook psychological projection.
