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The Third Time.

September 10, 2010

The following is the third in a series of recollections on a past relationship. There was a lot of good.. a lot. But there was a lot of bad that I haven’t ever talked about.. that I haven’t finished processing. But it’s time to move on. It’s time to deal with the past… [read Part 1] [read Part 2]

I’d woken up early and had made him french toast. Lazy mornings together had been the best part of his new apartment.

He was quiet this morning while eating. He was a sensitive kind of guy though, so I brushed it off. But when I came back in the room after cleaning up to find him curled up in a ball, crying- I knew something was wrong. I talked him out of it, begged him to talk to me…

He’d missed me. He’s wanted me to have more time for him, instead of juggling between my family (who still knew nothing of his existence) and my first year of college, not to mention work.

He’d cheated on me. He hooked up with this girl who the bartender at the bar he managed and introduced him to.. ironically the same guy who had introduced us two years earlier. He said it was because I wasn’t around and he missed me. He said he had pursued her, but once he got her home to what was essentially OUR bed, he had not been able to even preform.

I sat on the couch next to him quietly, “What does this mean for us?”

“It’s over… ”

I told him I didn’t care. I told him that as long as he still loved me it didn’t matter. I didn’t want to lose him, I loved him and if he still loved me and was honestly sorry.. that was all I wanted. I begged him to not do this… but his mind was made up.

When he asked me to leave, I took a deep breath and held it in. I wasn’t going to let him see me cry. I walked to my car, expecting him to come after me and change his mind.

I ran to the only outlet that knew of his existence at the time- my best friend. Lying on her bed, I cried for hours. It hurt… it hurt more than anything I’d ever felt before. In the two years we had been together, I had given him so much of myself. He was one of the last people to see the part of me that was still left unscatched from the emotional scars of my family. He had been my first partner, my first love and he had, in what seemed like the course of a night, decided that fighting to make us work wasn’t worth it.

It was our third fight.

We had broken up for the third time.

Two months later while driving I answered his call and we talked. As I drove he begged me to come back. He told me how depressed and lost he felt without me in his life. In my inexperience, I found his desperation endearing. Because I yearned to be wanted, we got back together… for the third time.

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