You never check your Tumblr anyway
Sometimes when I go on a hike or a long drive I think of you. I think of how you might find it exciting, mysterious, adventurous. I think about how you might think of me. I think about how you thought of me.
You never really knew me, before you moved away. When I found out I was almost relieved. I was bitter but relieved. Relieved that I had to force myself to let go of the idea of you, the possibility.
You never knew how strong I am. How opinionated I am. How forceful I can be. You only saw me as weak, as shy, as someone who cared too much about what other people thought of her. And that's not who I am... at all. I don't know what it was about you, but there was something that left me unable to speak, unable to have my own damn opinion, unable to tell you when to shut the fuck up. You never meant to be mean about it, you just thought you were right. You thought you were helping me by pointing it out, but you ended up just making it worse.
I think that's why I still think about it sometimes, because it still bothers me that you think about me that way, that you never gave yourself a chance to get to know me, never gave me the chance for you to get to know me. I think I would have come around sooner or later. But I obviously wasn't what you wanted. I tried too hard to be that. I tried too hard to get to know you, to call you something you didn't want to be. And I made the same mistake twice.
I knew that when I made your bed after you had gone to work and left a note, that I had made a mistake. I knew that when I was the one driving to Chico again and again during the summer, that I was fooling myself into thinking that any of this was possible. You made it so obvious for me, but you couldn't bring yourself to say the words. You just decided to fade into the woodwork and hope that I would give up.
Well, I did.
But it still bothers me. Even after everything - everything that didn't happen - it still bothers me. I wish that I could write you and tell you that everything that you thought about me was wrong. That, HERE. HERE is the person that I am. I'm loud. And strong. And I know what the fuck I want out of this life. And I'll be damned if anyone ever tells me differently.
I'm really happy now. I love someone. He loves me, too. I still get a resounding pang of something or other when I see a picture of you, or something geeky that reminds me of you. I don't regret where I am in my life right now, but I still wish that things had ended differently, that you had gotten to know me before you decided that you weren't up for any of it. You could have given me that courtesy.
You apologized. I appreciated that. I just wish I hadn't act to passive-aggressive about it. I've always been such an honest person, and in a way I turned into something I'm not: a lie. It bothers me that I still think about it all sometimes, but there's not much I can do about it now. Just write something that you'll never read, release it into the world, and hope to feel a little more vindicated.
You never really knew me, before you moved away. When I found out I was almost relieved. I was bitter but relieved. Relieved that I had to force myself to let go of the idea of you, the possibility.
You never knew how strong I am. How opinionated I am. How forceful I can be. You only saw me as weak, as shy, as someone who cared too much about what other people thought of her. And that's not who I am... at all. I don't know what it was about you, but there was something that left me unable to speak, unable to have my own damn opinion, unable to tell you when to shut the fuck up. You never meant to be mean about it, you just thought you were right. You thought you were helping me by pointing it out, but you ended up just making it worse.
I think that's why I still think about it sometimes, because it still bothers me that you think about me that way, that you never gave yourself a chance to get to know me, never gave me the chance for you to get to know me. I think I would have come around sooner or later. But I obviously wasn't what you wanted. I tried too hard to be that. I tried too hard to get to know you, to call you something you didn't want to be. And I made the same mistake twice.
I knew that when I made your bed after you had gone to work and left a note, that I had made a mistake. I knew that when I was the one driving to Chico again and again during the summer, that I was fooling myself into thinking that any of this was possible. You made it so obvious for me, but you couldn't bring yourself to say the words. You just decided to fade into the woodwork and hope that I would give up.
Well, I did.
But it still bothers me. Even after everything - everything that didn't happen - it still bothers me. I wish that I could write you and tell you that everything that you thought about me was wrong. That, HERE. HERE is the person that I am. I'm loud. And strong. And I know what the fuck I want out of this life. And I'll be damned if anyone ever tells me differently.
I'm really happy now. I love someone. He loves me, too. I still get a resounding pang of something or other when I see a picture of you, or something geeky that reminds me of you. I don't regret where I am in my life right now, but I still wish that things had ended differently, that you had gotten to know me before you decided that you weren't up for any of it. You could have given me that courtesy.
You apologized. I appreciated that. I just wish I hadn't act to passive-aggressive about it. I've always been such an honest person, and in a way I turned into something I'm not: a lie. It bothers me that I still think about it all sometimes, but there's not much I can do about it now. Just write something that you'll never read, release it into the world, and hope to feel a little more vindicated.