Looking back now I realize, I was never in love with you.
Sure, I loved your smile; the genuine one, the one that gave me butterflies. I loved your eyes, the kindness of their hazelnut color, when you let down your walls for a few minutes. The way you sometimes looked at me as if there was no one else, with that spark that burned my skin.
I remember how it all unfolded, how I slowly discovered you and fell for you. Your voice on the phone, sweet and comforting. Your car filled with tents, camping equipment, promising me a life full of adventures, passions like mine. Your car CDs, god I was in love with your taste in music. You made me feel like home ten minutes in.
You made me see in you all the things I could love.
How hardworking you were, how ambitious. You were honest, all along, and I was so blinded by your honesty that I overlooked your stories of infidelity, and how you never regret any of it. You had said all the right things at the right time, keeping me exactly where you had planned.
I remember your pulpy lips, the way they caressed my ear as you whispered sweet nothings, the way they devoured mine so ferociously. Your hand, holding mine as if it was the most natural things, as if I could ever call you mine.
You created an image of you that made me fall, an image I had struggled so long to let go of, and I still do.
But the truth is, I was never in love with you. I was in love with your potential. You had thrown fragments of perfection and left the rest for me and my brilliant mind; you always knew I oozed with creativity, how cruel of you.
I had seen us, you know? Living in the same house, sleeping in the same bed, talking about nothing and everything. I had even imagined us fighting, but always always, making up.
I was so preoccupied with knitting my own fantasies that I forgot you were making yours true, with someone else.
You see I was never in love with you, I was in love with your potential, I still am. And you, you have an amazing potential. I’m just sorry you can’t see that.