today in class I was thinking about how after I read my letter form piece about long distance, my teacher asked me if the purpose of writing it was to end the relationship

and I said no too quickly and everyone nervously laughed and I wondered if that was how it sounded, not that I was embarking in a journey with someone filled with all the necessary parts to really be with someone, but rather all the odds were stacked against us and at the end of the day, it wasn’t working at all

I wonder sometimes if stepping outside of something and seeing it for what it really was caused me to flinch, if I wrote myself out of loving you because suddenly the facts matched up with the reality and I couldn’t keep living in that dream world of abstractions and language laced with hopeful intentions

in the past week, I have explained to four people how we ended and how I found someone new so quickly, cringing when I talk about how much better things are without you after I so freely proclaimed that you were the one, it would last despite it all because it was worth it. how I have been gushing over someone else, the way it feels when our mouths collide and the conversations that aren’t stuttering messes through phone lines

it still hurts every single time, to admit my own failure. I don’t understand how two people who believed in something so strongly can end up completely on the other side of it, how things can go sour despite my best intentions. that’s terrifying, to not miss you. to be wrong. to feel certain I made the right choice even when it hurt to say it aloud.

and now I am in the midst of something new and it feels so good, but I am terrified of it still. trying not to run. trying to stick around. trying to be just because I can be, buying bus tickets and counting less days and miles. hoping it’ll stay, hoping I will stay.

we were asked today to write a journal about the biggest risk we’ve taken with our writing, and the only answer I have been able to come up with so far is the bravery behind saying anything aloud, the allure of nonfiction. how much can I spill, admit, share, face, explain, before I feel the brush of fear.

how far can I go before I start to wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into, all smitten and falling so soon.