I was pretending to clean my room. That meant I was throwing all my clothes from the floor into the hamper and putting my shoes back in their boxes. And underneath the mountains known as my wardrobe, there was a folded 8x11 piece of paper. Curious, I opened it and what I saw completely immobilized me.
They were my Wicked tickets. The tickets he got me for our anniversary. Tickets he called from his cell, his desk and searched ticketmaster online at the same time to get the second they went on sale. Because I really really really wanted to see this play, but I didn't think I would ever be able to get tickets for. I'm a memento girl. I save the cards from flowers, newspaper clippings, little presents and tickets. I have something saved from almost every boyfriend. I have tons of mementos from him, every card, every flower note, stuffed toys, pictures and some beautiful jewelry given over the course of 3 years. But these tickets, on a plain white sheet of copy paper, sent me back to my wishing place.
This was the guy I was going to marry. The guy I wanted to marry. The person I was going to spend the rest of my life with. The mere thought of that guy put a stupid grin on my face and I burbled with annoying happiness. So where did that guy go? The guy who brought me coffee at 11:45 pm while I was in studio. The guy who drove 90 minutes to hug me so I would stop crying? The guy who got me these tickets. This guy let me walk away? Yeah, and without a fight too.
The truth is, the guy that let me walk away is the one I was with. The romantic gestures, big and small, were wonderful; but they were few and far between. And it wasn't the lack of flowers and poetic waxings that made me leave; ultimately, it was consistent nothings. I have a wish list a mile long, full of wishing for something, anything more then what he gave me. It's full of empty promises and not-met standards. And the break that he wanted, made me realize how long the wish list was. And that it was there in the first place. But despite the list, I wanted us to work, and I really did hope that I wouldn't have to leave. The door's not fully closed like I lead him to believe, I'm still looking over my shoulder, hoping he's running to come get me. Not as often, but I'm still glancing. I'm getting tired of not seeing anything there.
So I'm sitting on my bedroom floor, silent tears running down my face, wishing I was with the guy who got me those tickets. I wish we wanted the same things from life. I wish he knew what he lost. I wish he knew me well enough to know that underneath all my bravado, I didn't really want to go. I wish he had fought for us. But mostly, I wish I didn't know him well enough to know he wasn't going to.
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