and they were roommates

The very last time we spoke, I asked you if you ever saw a future for us. You said, “I did.” You didn’t say but not anymore. I got it anyways. It hurt to hear you say that. It hurt more when I realized that I stopped seeing it for us too. You never even told me what that future was, and I kind of hate you for that because I’m nosy (you know this). But I also love you a little bit for it because maybe you were saving me from future heartache (I know it was both of our faults, and you’re not even here anymore—why do I keep trying to defend you from myself).

I never told you what I imagined either. I think what I looked forward to the most was living with you. That’s the thing about dating someone in high school. You can only imagine that kind of thing. So of course, when we ended up at the same college, I was excited. That’s the other thing about dating someone in high school: you’re still stupid enough to hope.

It’s the little things, really. I imagined what your shoes would look like lined up next to mine in the hallway. You always wore black Vans. Everyone owned them, I know, whatever. But you always wore them with long socks and when you walked you had this really unique bounce to your step. I can’t even describe it; it’s the type of thing you have to see to know, and it’s one of the reasons why I could recognize you anywhere. Or I’d think about opening the closet and seeing your ever-growing collection of UCLA sweatshirts next to my clothes—you’ve known your whole life what you wanted (I guess it wasn’t me, in the end). Maybe I’d even come across that yellow button-up I helped you pick out. You know, I saw you wearing it a few days before we broke up. I wonder if you still remember I was the one who chose it. I hope you do, and that you remember it so hard that you have to burn it.

My bad. I didn’t mean that. Then again, I kind of did. I know I can’t blame us for both growing into people that no longer fit together because they just had to go and become too different. God must hate me because once upon a time, I valued that part of us. I could never date anyone who’s too similar to me. Have you met me? In hindsight, that’s kind of a dumb question. Anyways, I’m insufferable. I liked imagining us being in the same room, doing our own things but... Together. Like I’d be in bed reading a book and I could look across the room and you’d be playing a video game on your two monitors. I wouldn’t ever have to look up, actually, because your keyboard would’ve told me anyway. I literally didn’t know keyboards could be that loud until I met you. I guess it’s true you learn something new from every relationship.

We always did different things. We just rooted for each other anyways. I thought it’d always be like that. Especially when your career started taking off in sophomore year of college. I figured your work would exhaust you, and at the end of a long day, you’d come home to me and find respite. I never thought it’d be the other way around. I know I wore you out. You know you wore me out too.

Sometimes I can’t believe that a couple of months ago, every decision I made for my future made room for you too. I used to wonder how I’d ask my immigrant Catholic parents if we could move in together, back when I was so sure that we’d make it to senior year. I guess I should feel relieved that that’s one less thing I have to talk to my parents about. Now I can go anywhere I want. The world has never been bigger. It’s also never been lonelier.

It’s strange, you know. My friends were all surprised when I told them this. They used to make jokes about us getting married. I always waved them off. They thought it meant I didn’t want that. After all, I never admitted it out loud to anyone in the universe, while we were together. I thought that I’d jinx it if I said it. In the end, it didn’t matter at all. I would be lying if I said I didn’t find it bizarre too. It was only the first night after we broke up when I truly knew, with aching clarity, that I would’ve given everything to wake up next to you just once.

Now one day, I’ll stand in my very own apartment and cry, not because you were here and then left, but because you’ll never be here. By then, I will have realized that we never really stood a chance, but for a fleeting moment in time, we both believed that we did. And I will have forgiven us both for our beautiful foolishness–in all its delusional, stupid, terrible, and glorious humanity.