He told me their name the other night. I heard it and it was as if he’d said it over and over thousands of times before. The Sara Bareilles’s song, Between the Lines, it just mocks my life now. He told me he really did love me, for years. Years upon years. I scoffed at the thought. Then he looked at me and said everything we had had just didn’t make him feel anything. I tried my best to hear him, to understand. I was so hurt, so angry though. Then he started talking about how much he loved this kid, how he doesn’t know how to live without them for weeks at a time when they leave for school. I just stared at him as the words spilt out of my mouth. “That’s not love,” I said blatantly. “Love isn’t about you, it’s about them. If you really love someone, you don’t fight to keep them in your life, to keep them caged. You fight to keep them happy, even when that happiness excludes you. Your love, it’s not really love at all.” He didn’t get mad, didn’t argue with me the way I thought he would. He just nodded and said that I was right, but that it was hard. I laughed, as if he would actually have any idea. Here I am giving the boy I love advice to hold onto the person he’s so sure he cares for. And then I turned to him, my mouth still spewing words that made me seem brave and strong. “You didn’t love me either, maybe it was love to you, but it wasn’t the real kind I was looking for. If you had loved me, really loved me, you wouldn’t have done anything unless you were sure of your feelings. You wouldn’t have dragged me along for the ride if you had thought it could turn out this way. I never once dragged you along for the ride. Why do you think I turned you down as often as I did? If I wasn’t sure of my feelings for you, and only you, I would have never asked you to give me your heart.”

But there I was, 3 months later, still watching him squeeze the living shit out of mine. When we ended up back at my house, I took it back. My poor damaged  heart still pumps blood just fine, it’s the loving part that’s blackened.