July 17, 2:19 AM

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After spending most of Sunday unconscious, Monday reared its ugly head in the form of a sore throat (most probably caused by getting rained on last Friday).

 

I always associated the smell of rain with your clean scent.

Most people I know hate it, but it’s the scent that I most associate with you.

Petrichor.

It sounds apt, your name and the scent I adore starting with the same letter.

Adored.

The scent I adored.

 

It’s another reminder that you’re not there.

 

 

My head is imagining scenario after scenario where you’re in bed with someone else, cuddling while the rain patters on outside.

I’m trying my hardest not to, but these are the first hours I’m awake and coherent after the news broke.

 

I’m partly wishing that I never texted you back on Friday.

Would I have been better off not knowing?

What on earth possessed me to do such a thing in the first place?

 

Maybe it was the adrenaline-induced high from having to participate in that Shake-Shake Drill (it’s not actually called that, but ever since McDonald’s came up with Shake Shake Fries I haven’t been able to call it anything else) that made me stupid enough to gather up the courage to text you.

 

A part of me is thankful that I had the foresight to file some vacation leave ahead of time for both Friday (so I could go dress-shopping and renew my passport) and Monday (to recover from what I had correctly assumed was a raging office party), because I really don’t have the strength to face ANYONE right now, let alone function around the office.

 


 

I wonder: how were you able to reduce me from someone with impenetrable armor and a chip on her shoulder back at 16 to a blubbering mess at 27?

 

You are not my Alex, you will never be my Alex.

Not anymore.

 

I’ve burned all the letters I wrote but never had the courage to send since we last stopped speaking a couple of years back.

It was stupid of me to mope around and wait for you while you were out cavorting with anyone and everyone in a skirt within striking distance.

 

And with that, I welcome the second stage of grief: Anger.

 


 

Everyone has a revenge fantasy where they show their ex what they left behind; it’s the go-to premise of many a movie and soap opera.

 

Mine involves seeing you in a restaurant with your family, your snooty bitch of a mother and your horribly egotistical dad and maybe a girlfriend being seated at the table next to mine.

Your mother notices me first with a double-take as I’m accompanied by someone dressed in an impeccable suit and points me out to you.

I notice but pay no attention as the stranger in the suit and I carry on with our conversation.

[End Scene]

 


 

Back on the topic of Alex (from Cecilia Ahern’s book Where Rainbows End — which, by the way, I WANT BACK!), I always thought sounded eerily prophetic of our on-off relationship.

To me it meant that even if we dated other people, we were end-game.

We were always going to love each other (despite whoever we dated), and that nobody could keep us apart.

 

To have those lofty expectations come crashing down in the midst of an after-party with your boss’s boss present was not my idea of a fun Saturday night.

Neither was it in any scenario I imagined.

 

Then again, that’s what life constantly does, right?
Take us by the balls in surprise and throw us for a loop (or ten)?

 


 

I regret kneeling my way down a church aisle for you, asking for God to bless our love.

He was never going to, because apparently you loved cheating on me more than being with me.

 

I regret letting you back in after you left me when I was pregnant.

I begged you to stay but you threw me aside for another woman.

 

I regret forgiving you after I miscarried.

I never should have done so in the first place, only to be betrayed and hurt again!

 

I regret letting you in.

Why did I even let you into my heart?

 

I regret meeting you.

I should have just answered your questions politely, that day we first met, and gone about my day.

 


 

Quoting Sir Winston Churchill,

“Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

 

I can’t take back those ten eleven years.

I can only move forward and try to look back at the past in an attempt to be enlightened and avoid #HeartbreakGate.

 

Jumbled writing and slight word salad-ing aside, I need to make sense of my madness…

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