This is the post that gave me a dose of writer's block. I wrote the flimsy paragraphs down on a piece of paper the other day, realized it was honest, and then all of a sudden felt conflicted about whether to post it or not. And then after that, I couldn't write anything, paralyzed by this indecision as to whether I should get quite this down to it here. So, I'm putting it up not so much because I want it to be read (a part of me still doesn't want it to be), but rather so that I can move past it:
I was childish back then really, but not much has changed. When E had first, unexpectedly, blurted out his interest in me and kissed me, I had come home that night with mainly one thought: yes. The yes had nothing to do with E. It had to do with a wave of relief, a silent pumping of the fist. Yes, I thought, he (the one who came before) wasn't the last one. The last one wasn't the last one.
Everything else I can bear these days. I can bear the bad he did me, can bear my own foolishness, can even bear that he will, in my life, always be the one person with whom amends will never be made. But what is still a hard thing to stomach, to consider, is that Q was the last or, worse yet, is the last.