I get you.
There were so many nights, I’m sure, that you struggled to silence the noise inside your head, but you just can’t.
How you pace back and forth by the front door waiting, counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds until the knob finally turns.
How you stare up the ceiling trying so hard not to panic but instead find yourself heavily breathing beneath the sheets of a cold and empty bed.
How you feel inadequate and not enough to fill his eyes, his thoughts, his lust.
A frantic scream, a restless void that you can’t seem to comprehend.
I get you.
He told me you weren’t okay but I never took a glance at how horribly he painted the woman he vowed to love for the rest of his life.
I know those were all pent up emotions and sometimes we say things we don’t really mean.
Maybe I was wrong to engage him in conversation.
Maybe I was wrong to have felt sorry for you and encouraged him to go home.
Maybe I was wrong.
I don’t know.
Truth is, there’s nothing to be scared of really.
What he and I had was far long forgotten but I understand if you feel the need to hate me. Hate me all you want, if that brings your mind at peace, hate me, that’s okay.
Because I get you.
I’ve been through the same, much worse even.
And I get you.