“Dance me to the end of love.” I had just been listening to my favorite Leonard Cohen song in the car, and was quite amused when your mother greeted me at the door, humming the same tune. As we sat down for dinner, I remember thinking that it was funny that she happened to be playing the same CD that I most often played on my iPhone. I thought that, perhaps, it was some kind of sign that we were supposed to be together.
In retrospect, it seems that I was always looking for these signs, trying to convince myself that I was in the right place. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t. That isn’t to say I didn’t care about you. I did. It’s just that I always sort of knew, silently, that we weren’t meant to be together.
We were much too different, you and I. We just didn’t see things in the same light. You were, for lack of a better word, very mathematical: every decision you ever made was based on a logical formula of sorts. I, on the other hand, was not quite so calculated. I had a vision of the future that I wanted with you, but it was built mostly upon frivolous daydreaming. I knew that it wouldn’t be too long before I snapped out of it.
I don’t know if I can say we were in love. I feel like it isn’t fair to say that we weren’t but, at the same time, I’m really not sure anymore. I feel like we tried to make things work because they looked good on paper. No outsider could have ever guessed that we were unhappy. We were both very good at playing nice. Eventually, it started to drain me. It even became a little bit painful. When I tried to envision the life that lay before us, all I could see were dead ends. I could only see a whole lot of compromising, and a load more of political correctness. Nevertheless, I somehow convinced myself [for a very long time] that I ought to be satisfied.
Leaving you behind was very difficult. I had developed a loyalty to you, which, honestly, could have probably withstood time. We could have probably built a white picket-fence life and filled it with children’s toys. I could have set a meal on our table every day, and you could have brought home the bread. We could have shared a retirement fund.
We would have both been so devastatingly miserable.
You are a wonderful person. One day, you will make someone out there very happy. Someone will choose you with adamant conviction, and you will help her build the most intricate parts of herself, just as she will seal yours. You will be the fabric of each other’s dreams. I could have never been that person. I would have always felt cheated, like I had received the short end of the stick because, with you and I, everything was based on compromise. In order to love each other, we both had to sacrifice the love of ourselves, and we both became bitter.
One day, you will find a love that completes you, and that does not ask you to change in order to earn it. Perhaps I will too. Only time will tell.
All I can really say to you, at this point, is good luck.
Good luck and goodbye.
April 1, 2014
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