And he's young. Too young. I love you, he says. But I don't hear it. In fact, I remember now that since the last time I've said those words to someone else, when I hear them now I bat them away with my hands like little annoyances buzzing towards my ears.
Sitting with Stephany in a sushi bar, I almost cried thinking about Arthur. Only this time it wasn't about our relationship or anything that had actually happened in the past. We spoke briefly when I was in LA and he in SF... our relative cities only two letters off. I get the feeling that he's still afraid to talk to me, as if I'd lash out in anger. He asks me if it would be ok to write me sometimes and see how I'm doing, and it makes me happy to hear that he still cares in some manner.
I was really happy and it's maybe the closest I'll get to tears of joy because I don't actually believe in them. I had a feeling of accomplishment and more than ever before I believed that I actually did love him. It gives you a renewed faith in the world to know there's someone out there you care about that much, that you can let go of and let them be with someone else.
Three years and two and a half months ago, we sat together on my bed in Rochdale Apartments. In my underwear (because why should I know better than to pair emotional with physical vulnerability) I told him that everything that I had been doing wrong I did because I loved him. I knew he wouldn't say it back. I did not expect it. I did not even hope for it.
Three years and one month ago, I wished him to come back to me. Now, I wish him happiness.
