Just Because I Don't Talk To You Anymore Doesn't Mean I Don't Love You...

Her: How long have you loved him? Me: Since the day I met him. Her: How long ago was that? Me: Eight years, four months and around 2 days. But no one's counting. Her: But you have been with others since the first breakup, over eight years ago, right? Me: Yes, of course. I am not a saint or a martyr. Look, think of it like a wheel: There is the center hub, which is him at the core of my being. Then there are spokes radiating to the outer rim of who I am. All the others attached themselves out there. The center position was already filled. By him. Her: Are you sure there's no chance you will ever be together? Me: Yes. Her: How do your know? Are you psychic? Me: I know because at the end of the day, no matter what I say or do, no matter what he says or does, no matter what anyone in the universe says or does, I am still me. Her: Oh. I see. I'm sorry. Me: Me too. Her: How do you keep, you know, going on? Me: I think when you strip away all the stuff clinging to who I am, what I am most of all, despite all outward appearances, is practical. It isn't practical for me to not go on. It is too easy to die. Anyone can do that. It's much harder to endure pain and keep living, and keep my eyes peeled for happiness, or peace or even just fun. Also, I'm naturally very curious and I frequently startle myself by how easily my grief is able to be pierced by anyone or anything that makes me think. Then I start thinking and wondering and imagining and paying more attention and then I know dying of a broken heart is not something I am capable of. But it's OK, I'm good at other things. Her: Like what? Me: Like talking to strangers like you on an airplane, for instance. Her: Huh. Yeah, you are good at that.

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