You don’t see it, do you?
It’s been two years since I last saw you. Right on schedule, you once again reached out. Once again, I let you.
You sit and sip your coffee with the charming bravado I loved once upon a time, and still feel a little enamored by—but I see it now. My rose-tinted glasses are off and there is sadness in your eyes.
You’ve been doing the same things for years, over and over. Nothing has really changed for you.
The world has started to pass you by. I want to say we have grown up, but it’s not growth in age or the passing of the years; it’s growth of soul.
I listen to your stories, the ones I once devoured, smitten in-love.
I’m too polite to tell you that you have told me them all before, so I simply listen. I know them as well as I would a favorite book.
You’re the adventurer, the man who is never tethered and free, but now, I see you with clarity.
You are a stranger to your own heart.
You are running with no destination, as long as it’s in the opposite direction to your pain.
Sweet man, how could I have been so blind?
After you broke my heart, I hated you, and I loved you. I walked that fine line. I pined after you.
It’s taken me years, but I know now. Even though the love I have for you is real, I am no longer in love with you—and that feeling of peace washes over me.
As we talk, as we share a few laughs, I know that I have found myself, and you have yet to do the same.
All those years ago, how could we have met each other in a place where we could share our lives together? Impossible.
We were doomed from the start and yet, we always flit in and out of each others’ lives.
As we leave and you walk me to my car, I smile at you, and you smile back. You are devilishly handsome still.
I know you are a wonderful man; your heart is good.
My wish is that you find yourself, that you put your demons in the past and embrace your vulnerability.
A great big bear hug later, you say, “See you soon, Mands,” and I think, but don’t dare say it, “Find your way adventurer, back to yourself—that would be your greatest adventure.”
Instead, I say, “See you in two years, bear.”