End point.

I always had a gut feeling you were lying.

 

The entire time I was with you, there was rarely a second I didn’t feel that way.

Lying about where you were and what you were doing. Who you were talking to. Or not talking to.

After meeting you, two of my guy friends asked if you really were who you said you were. They thought for sure you had a family back home—a wife and kids you send money to, while you stay here and fuck American girls for fun.

I defended you, just so you know. Defended you while trying to ignore that uneasy feeling I had about you since day one.

Because I really liked when your hand reached for mine every time we watched TV, or walked out of a restaurant. Or that one time you let your arm go completely numb so we could hold hands in the movie theater.

 

This is what I remember when I’m sad. The little things that come flooding back the second I let my guard down.

I think about kissing you goodbye, and hello and good morning. I think about you looking over and laughing at me because even though it was always my idea to watch a horror film, I closed my eyes the second I thought blood was coming.  I think about every night we sat out on your balcony—how the first time it was not quite spring and I eventually caved and asked for a blanket.  How when we finally went inside and sat down on your couch, you took my hand for the first time and said, “You’re so cold!”

 

How summer turned those nights into unbearable heat—cold beer being the only thing to cool us down. I think about watching your neighbor come home every night—the one with the flower magnets all over her car, and the hula-hoops in her garage.

By the last time I was there, I sat with my hands curled up into the sleeves of my sweater.

Three seasons had passed.

I count how long I knew you by the seasons.

Meeting you in the spring. Falling for you in the summer. Leaving you in the fall.

 

I told you I wasn’t happy—the last time I saw you, when I came to get the guitar, I told you I wasn’t happy, either. And that I had typed you a message but never hit send because you were away and because I didn’t want to be the girl who ended it with a text.

And then you were the guy who did.

 

It made me so angry. Not because I deserved more than a half-assed text with little explanation (I did, though, and you know it) but because I didn’t do it first. Because I let my finger hover over the send button on my phone two and half weeks prior and didn’t follow through.

It would have been letting you off the hook, or so I thought.

Instead, I asked you to call me. I had every intention of talking about it, but you sounded so happy, so carefree. I barely got a word in because you were so distracted talking about your work trip and the restaurants you went to and the shows you saw.

That was our last phone call. The last time we really spoke.

 

I wasn’t sure what to write about the ending of things—except that I knew that I had to. There’s a line from a White Stripes song that goes, “The words are going to bleed from me and I will think no more.” That’s what’s been going around and around in my head as I’ve been typing this, as I’ve been thinking about what I never said but still want to-- I have to get the words out.

 

So, here it goes:

I saw the Tinder app on your phone long before I ever mentioned it. I saw it on there after I did. Ignorance is bliss and I wanted so badly to remain blissful.

If you don’t like drama, I suggest you stop creating it.

There’s a part of me that feels bad for you—moving around so much over the past few years has prevented you from putting down roots. Or maybe you just don’t want to, I can’t be sure.

Another part of me wants to hit you with a car.

Do yourself a favor and stop dating until you know what you want.

Tell the next girl that she looks beautiful. Or that you like the way her perfume smells. Buy her flowers. Let her make you dinner. Do all the things you didn’t do for me.

Stop lying. To yourself and everyone else.

I really want you to regret this. I want you to wake up one morning, two months or two years from now, and think to yourself, "Wow, I really fucked that one up. I had a good girl and I lost her." I want you to hurt and feel empty the way I do now. And then I want you to take all of that loneliness and regret and shame and use it as a reminder to never treat someone the way you treated me, ever again.

One last thing...

 

I'm okay.