So … I did it. I responded to *that* Facebook message that had slowly driven me nuts for two days. I couldn’t just let it go, of course I couldn’t. This was my chance to make up for the regret I felt when I ignored his message last time. There was no way I wasn’t going to respond to this one. I don’t even know why I waited as long as I did. So predictable.
I accepted the message request and wrote out “Hey?” before staring at it for a solid 10 minutes. Was I really going to do this? Was I really going to respond? Was I really, seriously going to open that door again?
I didn’t need to. Facebook obviously alerted him to my acceptance of the message request, and he messaged me once again.
Did he really think we were going to do the idle chit-chat, small-talk business? I wanted to scream at him – you broke my godamn fucking heart and you want me to fill you in on what I’ve been up to for the last TWO YEARS?! I didn’t obviously, I’m so much cooler than that. In fact, I think I held it together pretty well. Outwardly, at least. On the inside, I was falling apart, my hands were shaking and I was pretty sure I was going to be sick.
Oh yeah, you know how I broke your heart two years ago by walking away when you needed me the most? Yeah, sorry about that.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!
Is that seriously your version of an apology mate? Is that it? All that fucking bullshit and that’s the apology I get? I GAVE YOU TWO YEARS OF MY LIFE! In fact, fuck that, scrap that, you’ve had FOUR YEARS of it. I’ve spent two years pining for that two year relationship. You were off getting engaged and fucking shit up again and I was sat here pining for you, you fucking asshole. And now you think that a half-hearted sorry is going to fix that? Are you okay in the head?
I wasn’t going to respond. I was just going to leave it at that. But then I realised something … if I didn’t say what I really wanted to say, I would regret it. So I said it. I said what I wanted to say. I said exactly what popped into my head at that moment – exactly what popped into my heart. Fuck right off mate. Just fuck off. Fuck off back under whatever rock you crawled from and never come back out again.
His reaction to my message disappointed me in ways I can’t even begin to describe. I didn’t feel like crying. I didn’t feel hopeful for our future. I didn’t feel as if we could get back together and we would live happily ever after. I wasn’t happy with his apology, his response, the way he tried to come back into my life as though nothing had happened, idle chit-chat included. I would never be happy with his response. He’s not the right guy for me. He puts no effort into any part of his life, relationships included. He would put as much effort into our relationship as he put into his apology – as little as possible. When he had that one last attempt to try and win me over, he shrugged and gave up. Do you know what I would have done in that position? Do you know what I did do when I was in that position? I wrote Jock an email, a really long one, telling him all the ways I loved him and all the ways he made me smile. I know that because I found it.
Just before I sent my response, I opened up that Dropbox folder on my phone that I never open – the one with all his photos in it. The one with all the photos of all my lost loves, each with their own little folder, little memories that hurt to be reminded of. I looked through our photos and I read the copies of the emails – some of which I sent him, some of which I never had the balls to. I put in so much effort with that man and I don’t think I got anything back. And now, two years later, when he has the chance to put things right, to apologise properly, to win me over if he’d really wanted to because everyone knows I’d have given in eventually, he didn’t bother. He literally couldn’t be bothered. I am not the love of his life. He is clearly not the love of mine.
I’m glad I responded to his message. That was all the closure I needed. Everything worked out exactly as it should have done – I realised he would never change, he’d always be the fat, lazy, effortless guy I dated back then. The one who would never propose to me. The one who would never be ready for me to have kids. The one who would never stand up to his ex.
Even though my hands were shaking as I typed out that message, changed it a thousand times, and proof-read it until the words no longer made sense on the screen in front of me, I felt empowered. I closed the door on that chapter. Me. I fucking did that. I felt it. I got my own closure. I don’t know what he wanted, or whether or not he was trying to get me back, but I do know that I didn’t and don’t care. There are no what-if’s. I got all the answers I wanted. Well, not the ones I wanted but definitely the ones I needed.
I wanted more than anything for him, for this, to be my happy ever after but it’s not. It won’t ever be. He’s a guy I fell very hard for and had the hardest time getting over. I’m still not over him. I don’t think I ever will be. But that’s just fine, it’s okay, I’m human. I have a heart and sometimes it hurts … for a really long time.
I can’t believe I said those words to him. I’ve re-read them a thousand times today. I kept waiting to see if he’d send me another message later, asking me to give him a chance, to hear him out. Of course he didn’t. He breadcrumbed me and I turned him down FLAT. In true badass style. My only regret now is not telling him I AM happy when he told me to “get happy”. But he doesn’t need another response from me.
He may have had the last word but I’ve had the last laugh.