Before I went to pick up the guitar that night, I was talking to a guy friend who was never meant to be one. Someone I kept in my life when I should have cut him out of it. For a very brief moment, before you, he was the axis I allowed my world to spin on. The yearning I had was for him and him alone.
Yet the distance between us was not ideal for a relationship, but rather provided the opportunity for a friendship to form, and so I took advantage of that. I asked him how he got over the worst heartbreak he ever felt. He responded with, “Time. It just takes time.”
I knew he was right. I had dealt with heartbreak before—even involving him, and the only cure for it was distance between what happened when it broke and everything that hurled me onward-- toward what was next.
How strange it felt to be asking him how to get over you.
In the black hole that was your immediate absence, the first thing I went searching for was your hand.
I remember sitting on the couch in my living room, attempting to distract myself with a movie, but instead focusing on the lack of touch. I had grown accustomed to you reaching for my hand; I forgot how to watch a movie without that small gesture.
I’m not sure when I stopped reaching for it, but recently someone’s hand brushed against mine. I was instantly made aware of the fact that it had been weeks since I thought of your fingers finding their resting place between mine.
It was a small sign of forward progression-- a little reminder to be grateful for each phase of heartbreak, no matter how long it takes to move from one to the next.
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