I don’t know where to start. It hurts. He wouldn’t give me the courtesy of breaking up with me in person, give an explanation of why he was dumping me after he was soooo in love three days earlier, and then-as if my heart needed the last, final blow, he hung up on me.
And after all that, plus one more hang up, I was still comforted by telling myself I’d see the loser again someday. Friday night, a year later, was that someday. Why I wanted it to happen and still do? That’s the part that makes me feel so pathetic. Erin, please, please do the girlfriendy thing when you write/call back and tell me how I’ll find someone else and how he didn’t deserve me by far, that I shouldn’t even waste my time or energy. It won’t take away that sickening feeling—the feeling of how could I have been cast aside like trash by someone who claimed to love me? But it’ll be nice not to feel so alone.
He walked me to the subway stop after we left (the concert) on Friday night. I was more happy to see him, like some stupid puppy, than I felt the weight of really how cruelly he had dumped me. Because I should hope I would’ve slapped him if I had the chance now.
With the glimmer of deep-gazing long-lost love into each others’ eyes, I was secretly thrilled (acting nonchalant the best I could) that he acted so disappointed when I said, “no, that’s ok, I can wait myself” for the train, and that he invited me to a concert he was supposedly going to on Monday night. And do you think he called me Sunday to see if I was going? More importantly, do you think I went?
Oh Erin, why did I set myself up this way? If all the old feelings of heartbreak hadn’t flooded back Thursday, they did when I was looking around at that show and realizing the farce in trying to believe I wasn’t at an undeserving man’s whim.
—Anonymous
