Tuesday, 15 April 2014

Say something

Once upon a time we spoke. We talked about everything. And we listened. It was the foundation of our friendship and the one thing I begged for was that - if our relationship failed - we'd still have that friendship.

Fast forward a few years. I'm yelling, screaming and begging.

It started as a bid for attention - any attention - looking for proof that you knew I existed. I was desperate for some evidence that I mattered to you.

So one day while you were talking about all the fun you had on a day out, I interrupted loudly and suggested we try something similar. We needed separate hobbies, you said. I'd get in the way of you getting to know other people better. You had less fun when I was around.

That night I cried and you hugged me, asking what was wrong. How could I say that we weren't friends any more? Clearly you still cared. I kept my grief, as much as was possible, to myself. But over time, I died inside.

You became more distant. The only sign that you cared at all was in the words you spoke about how you didn't want our relationship to end, how it was important to you. How you loved her. But you didn't want us to end.

You stopped loving me a long time ago, you weren't sure you were ever ready, I was asking too much of you, you got scared when we argued and resented me for the fact that you never stood your ground.

So I'm yelling, screaming, whatever it takes to drive you to the point where we confront the end of our relationship and you magically say you don't want us to end.

Because that is all I get now.

There is no friendship here, no intimacy, no affection, only endless cycles of caustic pain. But no matter what, you won't end it.

I wish it was over, but ending it myself is too much like admitting failure.

I'm begging you. End this.

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