wash, rinse, repeat.

They say love blinds you, but if you asked me, I’d tell you they all lied. Desire blinds you. Desperation blinds you. Fear blinds you. Love is just what we nickname it. We aren’t made to handle ugly truths.

I did everything that they say one does after heartbreak.

I cried.

I screamed.

I cursed his name.

I flipped through old pictures, longing for a different time, then deleted them so I couldn’t anymore.

I threw his things in the trash — tossed out his toothbrush from my bathroom, tore down his art from my walls, took out his gifts from my shelves. I removed his presence from my space.

I made a list of everything I hated about us, but even after four pages of regrets, in those early days, I still wanted us back. I wanted it back.

—

We had gotten into a routine of cold silences and “swear this time things will change” apologies, and I know they had never been working. I know we were lying to ourselves, but I craved the comfort the ignorance would be.

There were never any slammed doors. There were never any raised voices. When we fought, we fought mellow. We fought logical. We didn’t fight often, at least that’s what we chose to believe.

They say love is ugly, but I do not think it is meant to be. I think we tell ourselves that, because we are too scared of letting go. We are too prideful to admit ourselves wrong.

We had started like any good romance does — with alcohol and loud music. We all know the vibes: college, mixer, him, me. There wasn’t an us, though. We just both just happened to be there. We exchanged names. We exchanged contacts. I forgot about him after that.

We reconnected in a similar fashion. Months later. At a party his fraternity hosted. It was a last minute resort after a different mixer fell through.

I had plans to avoid him. I had blown him off last time, not out of rejection, I just didn’t owe him anything. I didn’t know him.

I spent that evening getting to know him. Then the next night. That next night turn into the next three days. Then the weekend, and the weekend after that, too.

At some point, I was just over all the time. I would go to class, live my day, go back to my dorm to shower and pack a bag. He would come by to pick me up. We would study until it got too late to study. We would talk until we couldn’t stay up any longer. The next morning, I would do it all over again.

We became an us.

—

I got integrated into his life fast. I met all his friends. I went out with him and all his friends. It was good. I loved the family he had.

Sometimes I wondered if I loved them all more than I loved him. In our time spent together, I was plagued by the question of whether it would get better, if it could get better.

I had come to think that we were as good as I would get. For all the things I wished were different between us, at least he did this, at least we weren’t as bad as them, at least I was happy I think, right? I was making excuses for us. I was settling. I didn’t want to believe it. There was nothing to get better, we were good.

I should have noticed it.

When over the months, he became a routine to me and me to him. When I began to dread seeing him next but craved his presence all the same. When I started to get so anxious after our arguments, I would forget to eat. When I began to hate myself, because I started to hate him. I should have noticed it.

We weren’t good.

We weren’t growing together. We were growing into each other. We were suffocating ourselves.

Eventually, we stopped being an us.

—

It was hard. Life sucked more than it had ever sucked before. I was sad and angry and even content. I was confused.

I missed him, but I didn’t.

I missed us, when we were good, but I questioned — were we ever?

I missed the comfort — the whispered reassurance and arms tangled around one another so intertwined that we stopped knowing where one person ended and the other began. We held, hands wrapped around shirts and fingers strung through hair. I missed it.

I missed that.

I missed being wanted, but we were wanting each other for the wrong reasons. We didn’t cling to each other in love. It was desperation. It was a hold of wanting us to work but knowing we wouldn’t. We were blind. I was foolish.

I converted my sorrow into running. I ran a lot. I ran until my shins hurt and I heaved for breaths. I ran because I hated myself during those moments, too.

—

I ran until I didn’t want him anymore, but he was still there.

The first time I tasted lips that weren’t his, I couldn’t tell if I was in a heaven or a hell.

The first time I felt hands that weren’t his slide over and lock into mine, I couldn’t tell if it was a bliss or a misery.

The first time I stared into eyes that weren’t his and smiled a smile I used to smile for him, I couldn’t tell if it was a truth or a deception.

They say it is easier to get over someone when you get under someone else, but I didn’t want that. I didn’t want him in any of my thoughts or actions, but somehow he was there anyways. For every new first, he was there anyways.

—

Like all things, I knew eventually the feelings would fade. The memories would grow old, stale in my head. New joys and new sorrows would replace them. There is simply too much in life to stress about. And that, in this moment, is the greatest solace.

When that time comes, when I have forgiven myself in the process of moving on, I want to belt that coveted four letter word at the top of my lungs.

I love you.

I want to mean it.

When I stare straight into wide, brown eyes, see them brighten when light hits them at just the right angle, and recognize them as my own, I want to repeat it back, and I will.

I love you, too.