“It’s obviously been on your mind. Why is it bothering you?” she asked.

Because I’m crazy. Because I over analyze things. Because apparently I enjoy tormenting myself. “Because… what if I made a mistake?” I said.

The possibility weighs on my mind. Supposedly it’s better to regret something you have done than something you haven’t done. But every choice has an alternative. There’s no way to be certain which option will provide a better perspective for the future, or which one will offer less hurt.

I could have kept things as they were. My strength could have been used to quell my breaking point. But I convinced myself that it takes a stronger person to say how he/she feels, so I decided to surrender my honesty.

As the smoke clears and the dust settles, products of my decision make me vulnerable to everyone, including him. Our last encounter when I couldn’t figure out how to be a normal fucking person, the words that I write, my inability to disguise my emotions – these are all results of the choice that I made. And they all feed my perpetual state of neurosis.

Yet as much as I care for him, I didn’t like how the situation made me perceive myself. Towards the end, I felt like a secret that he chose to deny. I felt like a fool waiting for the inevitable outcome. I felt like he was my habit and I was his burden. As often as possible, I will blame these thoughts on my own insecurities. My mind is adamant when denying that his recklessness could have played a hand in our demise. I don’t want to think that the fatal bullet was laced with his disregard. I’d rather believe it was all my fault.

Slowly I can feel the confidence that was shattered mending itself.

Even still, I miss him. I know that this will pass, but it saddens me that we allow it to get farther and farther away, until it becomes so small that we can’t see it anymore. And it’s like it never even existed.