(no subject)

I promised him I'd stop hitting on him.

I'm beginning to wish I'd never met him. Now that I know what I'm missing, it's tearing me apart.

Four months after a six-month relationship ends, a person should not still be an emotional wreck.

Things are starting to heal, including all the pain and even some of the sorrow. But the love is still there, and that's the part that's ripping me up. I still care about him. I still want him in my life. I still think about that imaginary red halter-top girl and I get so jealous I want to die. I don't feel that way about anyone else in the world. I wish I did for a million reasons, but I don't.

I promised him. And I keep telling myself to hold out until the end of the summer; you never know what can happen in two months. You never know. You never know. You never know.

I promised him. I promised I'd stop, that I'd go away and let the subject lie, and that we could just be friends. I think I even promised that I wouldn't bring our relationship up again.

I think I'm going to have to break that promise.

I don't remember the last time I broke a promise.

I promised him.

(no subject)

Maybe I've put him on a pedestal.

Maybe I'm remembering all the wrong things.

Maybe I'm doing the same thing I did with George, where I thought he was many things that he wasn't.



...
(I can't think of a single thing I thought George was that he turned out not to be.)