You said you never thought our story was good enough to publish.
Nobody would read it anyway.
You’re right, that nothing spectacular happened.
Nobody died. Nobody left.
I didn’t even cry.
There was nothing monumental in our love affair.
I wasn’t swept off my feet. You didn’t fall head over heels.
It was not a fairy tale and it ended all too suddenly to make a fuss about.
You said you never wanted to be epitomized in a few simple words. You were far too complex to be explained. No character could do you justice. That’s one trait I chose never to accentuate in my depiction of you, your complete belief that no one could peg you.
And I always regretted how we went our separate ways. I always wondered what it would be like to love you, all of you, for more than a flicker of a moment. So I rewrote our story with just a change of facts. Just so I could know.
Because every letter I ever wrote, every word you ever spoke has found a place in the history of our intertwined hearts. And while you weren’t the man of my dreams, my knight in rusted armor, and obviously not the love of my life, you were all these things and more in fiction.
We would fall in and out of love a thousand times. Meet in different places. Exchange different names. It’s happened so many times in words, but not once in reality. Don’t you know? It’s always our story, just with different pronouns.
It may seem like a silly way to hold onto you, reliving our time through idealistic transgressions and hopeless desires, but of all the things you took from me I am thankful my imagination was never ripped away. Because in that way, which you might never truly know, I got you exactly how I wanted you.
That’s how I learned to let you go.
Our fictitious love is so much better than reality.
At least then we could both live happily ever after.