june ~

// 1

Dear Boy of the past,

I know I promised I would talk more, and I know I didn't. It's just, you gave up first which made me realise, I deserved to give up too.

I was so fucking in love with you.

Honestly. I was.

From the moment that your fingers interlocked perfectly with my own for the first time, from the first time that I heard your voice and properly analysed it, and even after our unknowingly last kiss, up until this realisation, I'd still break bones for you.

It wasn't just for your looks, or the way that you once treated me, before your words of love turned to demands of toxicity.

It was first the voice. The way you'd say things differently depending on your mood.

Your soft voice when telling me that you loved me, your sad voice when you told me that you were sorry over the phone last June.

The voice that you'd soon shout at me in. The voice you'll now speak to her in. I don't know what it's like; but I hope to god that it isn't anything similar to how you spoke to me.

Then it was your eyes. The way that you looked at me when we first met, the little gleam of hope that once meant everything. Those eyes that soon turned from irresistible to dangerous. But the same eyes that will study her features. Admire her beauty - perhaps even compare it to mine.

Eventually, every little detail about you turned from alluring to destructive.

At this point, I was too delirious to see that what we had was no longer benefitting me, and it was time to let go. Not slowly or softly, but very rapidly, before you would take over my life completely and metaphorically drive me to killing myself. My free will was very limited in your presence and I called it love. The panic attacks you gave me were excused for butterflies in my stomach and my brain protected the fact that you were leaving for good really meant that you were struggling greatly and you needed me to do everything I can when you tried to push me away.

In hindsight, I was torn. I was so under the influence of your allegorical drug that I couldn't control my own body. I could not see that I no longer loved you. But now it is very evident. Even if it took others to point it out to me, that after June, there's July, and so-forth, and when you're ready for love - real love, not the platonic delusion that I was under - it will find you.

Just like I was found, recovering from the human version of an attempted overdose. 

Losing your first love is difficult. Every negative emotion possible for a human to feel is felt all at once. Every single hope and dream is crushed and all motivation is lost.

Breakups do that to you. It starts with loss of appetite, and oversleeping. That leads to skipping meals and insomnia. Restless nights and stomach pains. Usually teenage girls have their best friend to pick up all of the pieces up for them when they are eventually ready to open up.

I didn't. I lost you at the same moment I started to lose her. She was too infuriated in her first love, too. The honeymoon phase, as most call it, was far too important and far too relevant to set aside for a few days to help a long term best friend in need. A few visits occurred, but those shortly reduced to a few phone calls a day, then a few texts a week, and finally the argument to break all 8 years of a friendship occurred.

At this point, my only friends became the four walls that held up my bedroom and the calendar hung neatly on one of them, counting down the days 'till July.

Lonely, I confided a new trust in someone that you were iffy about me speaking to at an earlier time, and little did I know, listening to you in that sense was one of the biggest mistakes of my life and starting those conversations was one of the best and healthiest decisions I would make, ever.

You weren't coming back. I knew that now. You were going to move on in life and you weren't there to put obstacles in the way of me being on my way to better things too. I promised myself I wouldn't let it happen again. That I'd never go back. Then came the relapse.