Looking at old messages I’ve saved from the girl. They’re really tearing into me, and yet I can’t seem to stop. 1:30 in the AM, but I’m not tired and these notes are just a story that I know really well. I know the ending, but I’m always hoping something will change. 

You can keep your coke, weed and alcohol. Nostalgia is the most powerful drug. We seemed so happy, said such wonderful things to each other, batted around “love” like it was nothing; dropped it into every sentence. 

We were really good to each other, really good for each other. But it wasn’t good enough, and it went on too long and maybe all of these notes I’m reading are just a story, a narrative we needed to create in order to make things work for as long as they did. 

Someday I want to write something down that isn’t a lie. Something that isn’t removed, steeped in self-pity or explanation. Even this little note here just screams of self-delusion. Did I forget I was the one who called it off? Nope. Now I remember.

But when you’re looking back, it always looks amazing. And you know what? It might have been.