I'm sitting at the cannibalized nightstand that serves as my computer desk, and I'm crying. I've been trying to avoid putting on "Surfacing" for a week now, and I finally gave in tonight and just like it always does, even if there isn't anything wrong, the album makes me rock back and forth a little, and there are tears on my chin. I haven't listened to this in more than two years.
This is the hardest thing I've ever tried to do. I've never felt so much like an adult, and so much like a four-year-old boy at the same time -- knowing I'm doing the right thing, at the right time, for the right reasons, but still just a little boy who can't quite understand why he's being hurt, and all he can do is just stand in the middle of the room with his mouth open in a sob as loud as his lungs can make. Last Wednesday, the day after our two-year anniversary, Mike said all of the things that I'm not brave enough to say. He told me that he thinks there is someone out there who can make him vibrantly happy, all the time. He thinks there is someone to make ME vibrantly happy all the time. But both of us know that that person isn't each other. And it's still hard to type that, even though I've been saying it to myself for a week now.
"...and I have the sense to recognize that I don't know how to let you go..."
I don't think I've ever heard of a couple dealing with a breakup as calmly as we have been. I still love him, and I always will. I know he's always going to love me. But he's right, as hard as that is for me to see while I'm in the middle of being this sad. We're going to be really fucking fantastic friends. I want to see him in a big house someday, rolling around with a bunch of great big dogs. He wants to see me cooking up a storm in my sleek little flat. We're going to try to ride out our lease together until June. We watched movies together on Friday and went out to get a drink. We still say "I love you." Nothing's any different, except we tend to stay to our own side of the mattress, and I tend to spend a lot more time remembering when things were really truly great between us. I hope that isn't making this harder than it should be, but the only thing that is keeping me from collapsing on the floor is knowing that tonight isn't our last night in the same bed. I honestly don't know what I'm going to do when that happens. I don't know how I'm going to split up our t-shirts into two piles. I don't know how to go back.
"...and night's too long and cold here, without you..."
For a while, it really felt like he was going to be it. I can't stop thinking that this is all my fault -- if I'd tried harder or been better, if I'd complained less and accepted more. But I also keep trying to tell myself that we both got what we needed out of our relationship. We both learned a hell of a lot, and we both loved each other fiercely. We had romance and we had adventure and we had fun and we had magic. And I'm so, so grateful. So grateful. And so incredibly sorry. And I need to take a break because I'm crying too hard to see. God damn it, this is really really hard.
So. There it is. That's why I've not written anything of substance in so long. I could feel this coming, and I was too busy dreading it. I'm luckier than I have any right to be that it went down as well as it did. I know that I don't have to find a new apartment this week -- but I know that if I did, he'd help.
While I've already told you this in person, here it is where you can always find it, wherever you are: I love you, Michael. I always will. And all I want is for both of us to be as happy as we can be. Thank you for two years of wonder. Here's to many more years of true friendship ahead.