When he chose to let go, I believed I was the one who had lost.
As the minutes, hours and days passed, I came to realize that I was looking at a picture he had painted for me. The vibrant colors that once stained the canvas were beginning to fade. The moment I began to paint for myself again, my soul and heart began to flourish.
I had not lost him; it was he who had lost me.
He saw the broken spirit within me that I was working hard to rebuild. He was drawn to the passionate energy I was, unknowingly, pouring out all over the place. He was on the same journey but was tired of doing it on his own. The difference between the two of us was that I would have continued to fix myself; I never sought out others to do a job best done on my own.
I bravely took his hand, trusting that he would do his best to love me, that he would do his best to give me what I needed in return. I was under the illusion that this was the agreement we had come to.
I soon came to see that he loved me, solely, for what I was able to give. I continued to fill up his tank with my love, energy and passion, but every time I would come to him for mine, he never had any to give. My tank eventually ran dry and, instead of trying to find a way to fill it, he chose to move on to another that was already full.
It was he who had forfeited.
For me, his exit was the open door back to where I had left off. A door that was now open wider than it had been before.
For him, it was a tragic love story he chose to write.
He will miss me.
He will miss me because my love was deep, genuine and pure.
He will miss me because my default listening mode was without judgement.
He will miss me because I wanted to learn him; he was my favorite subject.
He will miss the way I could bring a sense of lightness to anything I deemed too serious.
He will miss the way I touched him with purpose and never anything less.
He will miss the way I would sometimes speak to him with everything other than words.
He will miss the way I was able to see the optimism when it seemed impossible to find.
He will miss my welcoming smile that awaited him at the end of every day.
He will miss my gentle touch that eased him into every morning.
He will miss my contagious curiosity and need to wonder.
He will miss my light that I could shine into his darkness.
He will miss me.
Author: Julia Martin
Editor: Caroline Beaton