since we first began.  That first day was in May, the 6th, of 2008.  It’s now June 11, 2009.  The ending left me in shambles much more than you.  You quit speaking to me abruptly without any source of answers.  Days passed, weeks.  I heard nothing, no sign of you at all except your slow disappearance. First you slid slowly out of sight from my original Tumblr, then my Twitter count fell, as did my Facebook.  I didn’t know when exactly, but the bomb left me in pieces on my floor of my bedroom paralyzed.  You happened to be my world, then, and it had suddenly ceased to exist any longer without warning. Of course I didn’t cry; I sulked.  For weeks I remained in an untouchable bubble of depression and angst toward you, trying to tell myself that I somehow didn’t care of your absence any longer, that it was good for me.  My loneliness was good for me.  My words didn’t matter to me.  It was the fact that I felt like I was missing something that jerked me much more than my own frail words could heal. I died on the inside.  You caused me to rot, hollow out, and develop into some sort of shell before contacting me, as though it was a part of your plan to make me just like you, unable to ever step foot in the sun again: modern day Dracula.  You sucked the life out of me and I can no longer feel. You came around eventually, some time in late April.  You told me that you were always at the coffee shop in town around 8 and that if I cared to join you, I was more than welcome.  I was naked, about to take a shower when I read your email. The next thing I remember is the rain and standing at the side of your two person table, shaking.  You commented on my body jerks, asking what caused them.  I told you I was cold.  The truth is, by this point, I had become so scared of what more you could do to me, it was physically destroying me.  I looked like hell, felt like hell, lived in hell. Alongside you or rather, your ghost. You asked me to sit that night and in the matter of an hour, I was crying once more in the palms of my hands, only gathering my belongings and leaving when my mascara burned my eyes where I could barely see. You followed me outside and told me that you’d like to do coffee with me sometime.  I laughed through the tears, sarcasm, and said, “Isn’t that how it always begins?  With a cup of coffee?” I had caught you off guard.  And you didn’t say a word as I gathered myself and got in my car, rushing over wet pavement towards home. That was April. Somehow I got myself together again; I began writing again.  I began slowly picking up the pieces you left behind.  And there were many people who watched me, observing my every move all along the way.  The one I’m with now was one of those people; he was there when you were no where to be found. He and I began talking a few weeks after I met with you that painful night.  We had things in common and we wanted to be loved, and to love.  We spoke for hours and hours, and though we were never face to face (without having some sort of virtual connection), those moments spent with him had much more quality than the hours we spent together talking over drinks. He is real; we are real. But when you learned of us, you became jealous, upset, frustrated.  You once told me to never wait for you and I didn’t.  Now, I’m the one who hurt you. We met last night, like many nights in our usual place, our usual chairs.  I was prepared for the conversations, the laughter, the fun we share together just talking but you brought your pain along with you.  You opened up the suitcase on the table and didn’t even try to conceal some of the hurtful things you said to me.  I was flabbergasted that you, who once told me that you love me, that you care for me, that you want us to be together would call me a whore for sleeping with my boyfriend a month into it all because we weren’t living close to one another. You can’t get over that I care for him more than you now.  It hurts you to know the truth.  But the truth remains: You had me at one point; you had every single opportunity to have me for over a year and you never took it. What more do you want me to do? I can’t do anything else.