It's been almost seven months now, since I burned that bridge. I knew it would be hard but I thought I'd be over it by now.
I knew it was coming, the dreaded sighting. At the store, on the road, somewhere, somehow, I knew I'd see you all around.
I knew it was coming, I don't know how. It was that sixth sense, I guess, that we all have. You say someones name and they walk around the corner. For me, it was a plaguing paranoia that came from out of the blue.
My head snapped around too fast when I saw your car. It was too obvious. It was too dramatic. It was involuntary and unstoppable.
After all this time, I still had a sickeningly visceral, physical reaction.
I felt like I was going to be sick. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I couldn't breathe. I dare say a tear fell. All of it, at once, unannounced, unbecoming, unwanted, unwarranted.
Seven months and it still hurts. The fake apologies. The lies. The excuses.
After seven months, time still gets to me. It whispers in my ear and makes me doubt myself. It pushes me into dark, lonely places at night. It makes me want to reach out, to say it was my fault.
I won't. It wasn't, not entirely at least. But it still hurts. And I wonder if it will ever stop or if I'll have to live in this town praying not to see any of you for the rest of my life.
