some things aren’t meant to be, but you’ll never find the answer until you set your old heart free.”
Apparently I am dead to him now, unless he is forced to acknowledge my existence on the basis of professionalism.
The Curly Haired Wonder and I were on our way home from the beach, and we stopped in at the coffee shop, and, even though I was standing right in front of him, even though I was engaged in the conversation —
he didn’t make eye contact with me until he had to ask a question about my drink. He didn’t acknowledge me before, or after, except when saying bye, when he said “bye, guys, have a great day.” Just like he does to everyone who walks in that door.
Because if he’s just the boy who makes me coffee, I’m just the girl who takes too long to make up her mind.
As we walked out, I started crying, because memories, because sentimentality, because nostalgia and wishes and love.
Because I remember, now, when I first met him, when I was in my ballet gear, turning circles from one end of the room to the next, waiting on my mom while she talked to his mom. I remember eight years of movies, of snack runs, of late nights, of book buying sprees, of picnics, of sharing music (even though we always, always hated each others’ favorites), of artsy photos, of deep-soul secrets, of everything.
It sounds horrible, because I don’t care about anyone else I have lost recently. I don’t care about anyone things are tense with, except for him. Because we were so close, and things were intimate in the way it can only be between best friends who never, ever have a chance of falling in love.
He said in his beautiful words that he wanted to fix things, and I told him it would take a lot of work on his end, because I felt as if I had been carrying the relationship for months. Because I was hurting and there was very little trust left. Because he had to prove to me that he meant it, after so many let downs, after the dozens of times he would back out of plans or take back something he had said.
I remember now, though, something that the Curly Haired Wonder said at the beach this morning, when I was red-faced and hoarse from yelling my pain to the gulls and the waves.
We’re all broken people. I screwed up, and so did they. So did he. But it’s not my job to fix him, or them, or anyone. I can’t even fix me — I’m not the redeemer. I’m not the healer. All I can do is let my Jesus fix me where I’m broken, and accept the fact that not all friendships last forever.
It’s funny, though. Not “haha” funny, not like a joke; it’s ironic funny. It’s, “oh, how has it come to this?” whispered in the soul. It’s a sense of loss and longing standing side by side, hand in hand.
It’s beautiful, in a broken way.